


Clutched My Brain and Eased My Illings

by CharWright5



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Amputee Derek Hale, Angst, Army veteran Scott McCall, Depression, Eventual Romance, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scott McCall gets a dog, Service Dogs, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, War veteran Scott McCall, background stiles stilinski/derek hale - Freeform, blink and you miss it mention of suicidal ideation, brief discussion of dismemberment, brief mentions of death/dead bodies, cameos by other minor characters, former Navy SEAL Derek Hale, lawyer Deucalion, survivor's guilt, very loosely inspired by 101 Dalmatians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 10:36:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12340992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharWright5/pseuds/CharWright5
Summary: Suffering from PTSD after three tours in the Middle East, veteran Scott McCall gets a service dog to help him deal with the day to day stress of civilian living. He just didn't count on his furry companion to help him meet a man who could relate to not only animal ownership, but also living with a disability affecting his life.





	Clutched My Brain and Eased My Illings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GamineDocile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GamineDocile/gifts).



> A commission from Gaelle for a Scott/Deucalion strangers-to-friends-to-lovers fic loosely based on the meet-cute from _101 Dalmatians_ , with combat veteran Scott getting a service dog and bonding over similar animal breeds. I went with a German shepherd because not only are they service dogs, but I have one so I'm kind of partial to them. I ended up basing a lot of the fic Alsatian's personality and appearance on her and I'm not sorry. Our canine goob deserves love. Also, this was only supposed to be 10K, but like with literally everything I ever write, it got out of hand and... yeah....sorry not sorry. *shrug* I _am_ sorry this took so damn long though. I never meant for that to happen  >.< Title from Halsey's “Is There Somewhere”.

It started with a car accident...

No. In all technicality, it started years before that, when Scott McCall was eight and his alcoholic dad had bailed, leaving his mom as the sole breadwinner. Which, on a nurse's salary, wasn't easy. There were times when their power was cut off, when there wasn't really any food in the house, when Sundays were spent clipping coupons in the hopes of getting a hundred bucks worth of groceries for only ten like the people on those TV shows. Even Scott's added paycheck from his job as a veterinary assistant didn't help put a dent in their debts.

College had seemed impossible.

While he'd been smart enough to get okay grades and graduate, he wasn't quite at the level of his genius friends who both earned multiple scholarships. So he joined the Army, knowing what everyone knew, that serving would earn him money for college. He did well at the physical stuff, years of lacrosse shaping his body into something strong and with a lot of endurance. He worked hard at the classroom aspect, strategizing and learning the way of the Armed Forces, hoping that the better he did, the more money he'd receive. And in between, he took college courses online, getting his prerequisites out of the way, the boring math and lit and history crap that was required of him.

Shit changed during his first tour overseas, his unit thrown straight into the fray in Iraq. His second day there, he killed someone, the repercussions of which didn't fully hit him until months later when he returned home and crashed out, having run on nothing but adrenaline and fear for six months. His second tour was worse, caught in a major firefight against ISIS as both sides fought for control over a small town. His third tour came near the end of his service requirement and was cut short when his Humvee drove over an IED. Four people had died, his CO had lost his arm, another soldier lost one leg and had the other amputated. Scott had been told there was a relatively large chance he'd have to have his own right arm amputated, but the docs were able to save it.

Relative term really. The limb was weak and damaged, covered in a web of ugly burn scars that ran up to it to his neck and spread across part of his back, where the blast had hit him. Every day he had to look at them in the mirror and every day he'd be reminded of the horrors he'd witnessed in war.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott had never really been one for war movies, even before he'd joined the Army. He'd watched _Pearl Harbor_ in high school solely because the girl he was dating at the time wanted to watch it, drawn in by the romantic aspect of it. By the time the actual attack happened, he'd had his hand down her pants and her moans in his ear and neither were paying attention to Hawaii being bombed or America striking back.

No, Scott had always been a comedy kind of guy, along with his best friend Stiles Stilinski. Stiles had changed that ideal when he began dating a former Navy SEAL though, his obsessive mind latching onto the mission of trying to understand everything Derek Hale had gone through—or understand as much as possible, considering the only way to truly _get it_ was to actually be in a war yourself.

Not gonna happen, Stiles had said when Scott had told his plan to enlist their senior year. His dad had been in the Army and to that day, was still haunted whenever talk turned to war or battles. Instead, Stiles had gotten a criminal justice degree and joined his father in the sheriff's department of their small county in Northern California.

Meaning Stiles had just happened to be on patrol in the vicinity when Scott had driven his car into an electricity pole after he'd swerved to avoid trash laying on the ground.

He'd thought it was an IED.

Stiles had been the one to argue leniency and help Scott get away with no punishment, the judge luckily a vet himself and sympathetic. Instead Scott was mandated to attend therapy.

He didn't bother telling the judge he'd been on his way to his appointment with his therapist when he'd crashed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His therapist's name was Marin Morrell and she worked at the veterans center a town over from Beacon Hills, where Scott lived. She was beautiful in the way panthers were beautiful: sleek, flawless, but with a hidden danger kept behind shrewd analyzing eyes. She was soft-spoken, sweet, never pushing but always with a gentle nudge to get him to speak.

Scott felt like he was wasting his time most sessions, Morrell herself having admitted that she'd never been in the Armed Forces or at war. He didn't see how she could help someone when she'd never experienced what he had. No, she was able to drive home without worrying about going over an IED, able to go to sleep without worrying about someone bombing her residence overnight, able to walk down a street without worrying about being ambushed by enemy snipers.

And on top of that, the nightmares didn't end. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw kids dead in the street, women with burkas and hajibs covered in blood, men blowing themselves up in a bastardized version of faith, his comrades shot and falling, fire, explosions, death.

He stopped going to his appointments.

He stopped going to his physical therapy sessions.

He stopped going outside, where the world was too loud and his anxiety was too high and everyone stared with faces contorted into looks of disgust or pity or both.

Scott McCall had survived three tours of Iraq, but he wasn't living.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Stiles found out because Stiles always finds out. It was what made him a good investigator, the nosiness, the sneaking, the ability to stay just on the right side of the law as he broke protocol. Scott really should've known it was coming when Stiles first began texting, then calling, then texting again and again and again, all of it going ignored. But Scott was too far in his own head, refusing to get out. The war had cost him his girlfriend, his peace of mind, his ability to use his right arm. Why wouldn't it cost him his best friend, too?

Yet Stiles was too tenacious for that shit, too loyal. Their friendship was far from perfect and, yeah, they'd had a fight or two over the years. But Stiles never had abandoned Scott, had called and Skyped while Scott was at basic training more than his own mom had. The two were practically brothers, possibly even more than with their parents now dating, so naturally, Stiles wasn't gonna let anything go when it came to Scott.

Scott wasn't surprised when Stiles invited himself into his house, despite the door having been locked to keep the entire world out. Granted Scott wasn't sure if the lack of surprise was due to the act being such a Stiles thing to do—considering how often he'd done it in the past—or because he was so far in his head that nothing registered. He felt disconnected from everything, even his own body, barely aware of the fact that he was on the couch in the dark, blanket haphazardly draped over him.

"Smells like a dead body in here," Stiles muttered and Scott wondered for half a second over whether the comment was meant for him or if he was talking to himself. He quickly decided he didn't care, that it didn't matter, staring at the popcorn ceiling and the stain above him from where he and Stiles had managed to actually get beer on it during a party after his first tour.

Shit had been so much better when he was just worried about getting his security deposit back.

A lamp was switched on above where his head was laying on the arm of the couch and he flopped his left arm over his eyes to shield himself from it, right arm laying useless alongside his body.

"It lives!" Stiles cried out in his usual dramatic fashion, sarcasm being his true native language.

Scott wanted to flip him off but couldn't summon the energy, middle finger of his right hand twitching but unable to raise. He knew he'd lost a lot of ground by not going to his physical therapy, but he couldn't summon the strength or energy to go to his appointments. Then he'd get frustrated and upset at his arm's inability to work and want it to get better, only to once again struggle to make himself go. It was a never-ending cycle that he couldn't break free from, pushing him further down the spiral of depression he was sliding on.

Stiles seemed oblivious to Scott's internal struggle, grabbing hold of the blanket and whipping it off him. "Time to get up, sleeping beauty."

"You're a dick," Scott croaked, voice weak and raspy from not being used for...for however long he'd been laying there. Time wasn't a concept he was familiar with anymore, mind and body stuck in a weird floating state, drifting between sleep and half-asleep. There was no clock in the living room where he spent most of his time on the couch, only ever getting up to shuffle to the bathroom or get a drink from the kitchen when his thirst grew to be too much. Considering he hadn't reset the clock on the microwave after the power had gone out during a bad storm a week or so ago, it wasn't much help either. The only way for him to know that time had passed was through the window and whether it was light or dark outside but even then that didn't help. He could never tell if he'd been asleep for only an hour or an entire day.

Stiles scoffed down at him, balling the blanket up before tossing it aside. "And you smell like something festering in the hot sun," he stated bluntly and Scott finally moved his arm to scowl up at him. Stiles just glared back down, arms folded over his uniform covered chest, light from the lamp reflecting off the deputy badge on the left side of his chest. The guy had bulked up over the past few months he'd been working in the sheriff's department, biceps visible where he'd once been scrawny and pathetic. Scott knew his own had most likely withered away, leaving him the stick-like figured he used to be his freshman year of high school, eight years ago.

A long sigh drifted past Scott's lips and he rubbed his hand down his face, feeling the stubble that had accumulated on his uneven jaw. "I'm not feeling very social right now, Stiles," he said lowly, peering up at his best friend and getting a deadpan look in return.

"You haven't been very social for the past two weeks," he replied with a hard edge and Scott turned away, staring at the ceiling once more. "It's not bad enough that you've been ignoring my phone calls, or Lydia and Allison's, but you can't ignore your mom. She's worried. We're _all_ worried. But your mom is the one who most needs to know, out of all of us, that you're okay."

Scott frowned. "Then why isn't she here?"

"Got held up at the hospital. Big pile-up on I-5. So now you get to deal with only me and no Melissa holding me back."

Shit.

"Like I said, time to get up. You need a shower, a shave, some clean clothes, and some serious spring cleaning in here." Stiles glanced around the living room, taking in empty glasses, half-crushed water bottles, crumb covered plates from when Scott could actually bring himself to eat. "Gross," he commented before turning back to his best friend and holding out a hand.

Scott had half a mind to tell Stiles to fuck off, to just go home and forget all about him. But he couldn't. Partially because he knew there was no way in hell Stiles would ever go for that, but partially for his mom. For the longest time, it had been just the two of them and no one else. When he'd been deployed, she'd been literally worried sick over him and his well-being. After the accident and his return home, she admitted to being relieved he was there for good—even if it wasn't how she'd wanted him to come back—because she no longer had to stress herself out with worse case scenario nightmares about what could happen to him overseas. He'd survived one of those very nightmares, driving over an IED, and now it was all about his recovery and integration into civilian life.

Only he wasn't recovering and integration wasn't something he wanted to do.

He could only imagine how upset she must be over him and his lack of progress, his lack of updates.

With that thought in mind, he clasped Stiles' extended hand with his left and allowed his friend to haul him up into a sitting position, then off the couch

"Go shower while I clean this place up. Then we can talk." The somber tone in his voice wasn't anything new or unheard, but was generally reserved for ultra serious shit, like discussing his deceased mom or Derek's own issues with civilian life after leaving the SEALs. The tone had been directed at Scott only a few times, always before or after he was deployed. Meaning whatever it was that Stiles wanted to discuss was gonna be some deep shit.

Not that Scott didn't deserve a serious talking to. His biggest problem was his inability to want to talk or change the behavior that prompted that conversation.

Still, he nodded and shuffled his way out the living room and into the square shaped hall located in the middle of his single story house, taking a right and heading into the only bathroom the place had. He heard Stiles let out a heavy sigh then start stacking dishes and he closed the door to block it all out.

The shower stood to his right and he knew scrubbing off would feel good. He just couldn't summon the strength to do it.

"I swear to god I will strip down and get in there with you if I don't hear water running in the next two minutes!" Stiles threatened on his way to the kitchen and Scott knew he meant it.

His brown eyes darted down to his scarred up arm, thinking of how the mess spread across his part of his chest and back. No one outside of his docs had seen them and he wasn't about to change that fact. That thought in mind, he stripped down, dropping his clothes onto the linoleum floor without care, then got in the shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott stayed in the shower for about twenty minutes, although only five was used for actual cleaning. The rest of it was spent standing under the hot spray—as scattered and splayed as it was—letting it work kinks out of his body. He struggled to wash with only one usable arm and lamented not letting Stiles follow through on his threat of joining him, only to remember his scars and decide he'd rather have issues cleaning himself.

He shuffled to his bedroom located to the right of the bathroom, changing into the first tee, boxer-briefs, and mesh shorts he could grab out of his drawers. He absently noted that his bedding had been changed into a clean set of sheets, comforter gone, and figured Stiles was washing it all for him. Probably for the best. Despite having spent the past week or so on the couch, Scott had no clue when the last time he'd washed his bedding was.

He swiped his towel over the unruly mop of curls that was his hair in a cursory manner, not drying so much as wiping away excess water, then made to toss it into his laundry basket, only to realize it was empty. Stiles must have picked that up, too, he thought as he pulled on a hoodie, taking the towel with him as he headed out his room.

The kitchen was located across the square hall, through a small dining room that contained a round table and mismatched chairs that'd been picked up at a consignment store. Stiles was in there, fiddling with the buttons on the old washer, piles of dirty clothes sorted on the floor in front of him. Scott dropped the towel on the appropriate group and took in his friend's appearance. His utility belt wasn't on, radio not clipped to his shoulder, shirt untucked, so he was obviously off-shift. Bags were under his eyes, hair more disheveled than his usual just-rolled-outta-bed style, and his shoulders were drooping with invisible weight.

Scott frowned, wondering what exactly was going on with him, if maybe he himself was the cause of obvious stress, if it was a hard case, if he was having issues in his relationship. He glanced out the back window and saw it was getting dimmer, the now adjusted microwave clock saying it was nearly seven. Not exactly late, but Scott figured Stiles would be at home with his boyfriend, having dinner and being disgustingly domestic.

"Why aren't you with Derek?" he questioned, sounding more nonchalant than accusatory, scuffing his bare feet on the linoleum as he headed to the opposite side of the kitchen, standing in front of the sink. Dishes were in the drying rack, scrubbed clean, the counters free of any crumbs or dust.

Stiles had apparently been busy in here, too.

"At a meeting," he answered plainly, the washer starting up as he turned around and leaned back against it.

Scott nodded, figuring he should've known that. Derek led group meetings and outings at the local VA, helping other soldiers with reintegration and adjusting to their new lives, mainly other amputees like himself. Scott absently rubbed at his bum arm under his hoodie sleeve, feeling the distinct scarring under his palm and feeling like an ass for his inability to be normal when other vets had it so much more worse than him. He went to one meeting, felt like a fraud, and never went back.

Plus side to it all was that Derek was annoyingly patient and understanding and never asked Scott why he didn't return, simply said there would always be a seat for him when he was ready.

Really, that could be a downside as well.

"I have a lot of free time to bother you, if that's what your concern is."

Scott shrugged, slowly turning and leaning back against the counter, wrapping his arms around his torso. He kept his eyes fixated on the ground, on a crack in the linoleum barely two feet away, unable to make eye contact. He used to be so good at that, especially with Stiles. There was nothing the two of them couldn't talk about or say to one another and now he was struggling with words, his mind staticky fuzz like a radio stuck between stations.

"I meant what I said about not feeling very social," he muttered, tugging the sleeve of his right arm down over the back of his hand like it could hide everything wrong with him, when in reality, a lot of it was in his head.

"And I meant what I said about bothering you," Stiles rebutted. "You can't stay holed up in your house forever, slobbing it on the couch and not eating. Speaking of, when _was_ the last time you ate?"

Scott shrugged. He had no clue.

A small sigh left Stiles, more resigned than anything, and he pushed away from the washer, crossing the kitchen. "I'll make you something," he said softly, heading to the fridge and peering inside. He gathered eggs, ham, and cheese before grabbing bowls and the frying pan, setting about making an omelet as he got bread warming in the toaster. "I mean it though, Scott. I'm not gonna let you wallow here forever and rot away."

Scott turned away, feeling lightly annoyed at his best friend's stubbornness. It was Scott's life. What did Stiles care how he was spending it? He wasn't a little kid that needed someone looking after him and the last thing he wanted was someone pushing him out of his current way of life.

"Do you pull this shit with Derek?" he asked, slight bite to his words, letting it be known he was agitated.

"When he needs it, yeah," Stiles stated, ripping up pieces of ham and adding it to the bowl of whisked eggs. "And you fucking need it. Hell, Derek was the one who suggested me and Melissa come here and get your ass in gear, otherwise it would never happen and you'd become a total hermit, cut off from the world."

Scott scratched at his uneven jaw, whiskers rasping where he hadn't bothered shaving. He didn't see anything wrong with that. Especially not when the world was just so... _much_.

"I just. Can't handle, ya know?" He waved his left hand around as though encompassing the outside world, shoving it in his pocket when he was finished. A shaky sigh left him, chest getting tight as he thought about everything, about going outside, about socializing and exposing himself to other people. It was bad enough when it was someone he'd known his whole life. Strangers would be worse.

Stiles nodded as though he understood and Scott wondered if maybe he did. He'd been through his own trauma with his mom's illness and subsequent death, his own struggles to reface society with that stigma attached. Plus he had Derek and Derek still had bad days where he couldn't cope with going out either. So maybe on some level, Stiles did get it, even if he could never fully relate.

The deputy wiped his hands on a nearby dishtowel, turning to face his friend before speaking. A pensive frown was on his face, thumb rubbing his bottom lip in a habit that showed he was deep in thought. "Have you ever considered a therapy dog?"

Both of Scott's eyebrows raised in surprise before dropping into a thoughtful scowl of his own. "A therapy dog?" he double-checked, hoping he wasn't coming across as judgmental. He was more curious than anything, about where the suggestion came from, why the suggestion had been made, why Stiles would think that would work when actual therapy hadn't done shit for him.

Not that Scott was putting in a lot of effort there lately. Still though, when he had been going, it hadn't been all that helpful.

Stiles nodded, arms folded casually. "Yeah. One of Derek's platoon mates, Isaac, he has one. And Derek has even said that his assistant dog Tris helped him integrate and go out in public."

Scott just stared, still skeptical, wondering how a dog could help with anything other than retrieving slippers or giving your hands something to do. And apparently his skepticism showed on his face because Stiles went on explaining.

"Therapy dogs for vets act as a buffer, a sort of protection between you and other people. They can be a distraction so not as many people are paying attention to you, 'cause let's face it, everyone's always gonna go for the cute dog over the person leading it. They also can act as back-up and can even be trained to sense changes in their handler's breathing and heart rate, pick up on anxiety. Tris has even woken Derek up from nightmares before they got too deep or heavy."

Scott still didn't say anything, but didn't entirely reject the idea either. It wasn't entirely terrible and what Stiles had said made sense. Not to mention that Scott loved animals and had at one point even wanted to treat them as a vet.

But there was a big difference between treating an animal and having one as a pet. There was a reason why he'd never had one growing up. More than one reason really. No time, no money, no way to take care of them. He honestly didn't think he was in any better shape to be responsible for another living thing at age twenty-four than he had been at thirteen.

Stiles scratched at his cheek then gestured to Scott with the same hand. "Look, I'm off Saturday. Today is Wednesday. That gives you two days to think it over, then we can both head over to wherever Isaac had gotten his dog and we can at least just check it out. Can you promise me that much?"

"As long as you don't try to force me into anything else."

The other man screwed his face up. "I can promise I won't force you into anything for the rest of the week. How 'bout that?"

Scott huffed but knew it would be as good as he could get. With a dismissive shrug, he extended his left hand toward his friend. "Deal."

Stiles met him with his own left hand and shook on it with a "deal" of his own. "For now, food. And I don't wanna come back to another pigsty on Saturday."

Turning away, Scott stared out the back window at nothing, refusing to make a promise he couldn't keep. He'd conceded enough that evening.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Stiles stayed for another hour, long enough to make sure Scott ate something, put dishes away, clean the living room and bathroom, vacuum the house, and move laundry from the washer to the dryer before starting on another load. But before he left, he gave one last warning about not seeing the small house in disarray ever again, that he'll be there bright and early on Saturday, that Scott should text his mom back. He followed the last one, a quick ' _I'm alive_ ' just to stop her worrying.

He finished the laundry because he needed the clothes and because he didn't want the washer full of wet fabric stinking the house up after Stiles had opened the windows to air it out, bitching about the stench. That, plus he was awake and with nothing else to do so he figured he should do _something_ while he was on his feet. He half-heartedly folded it and left the stacks on his bed, crashing on the couch around three am and passing out.

He spent the next two days sleeping on and off, much like he'd spent the past two weeks. His mom called but he didn't answer, though he did give a pitiful apology in response to her text saying she was worried. After that he let his phone die and didn't bother plugging it in.

Stiles showed up at nine am Saturday morning, as promised, dressed in jeans and a black henley. Scott was hit with a brief pang of nostalgia as he wondered what happened to the graphic tees and plaid overshirts his best friend practically lived in during high school, only to realize he wasn't the only one who'd changed over the past five and a half years. Stiles had a degree and a job and a live-in boyfriend and a dog. Scott had damage, both on his skin and down into his soul.

He was forced into the shower again as Stiles made him breakfast, jeans and olive green long sleeve picked out for him like he was a kid. Probably for the best though, he realized, knowing that had it been up to him, he would've shown in sweats.

The place they were going to was an hour away and it was a long, silent ride. Scott found a small solace in the fact that Stiles still drove his clunker of a Jeep, although it had clearly gotten a new engine and AC, meaning it didn't feel like they were riding in a mobile sauna.

Eventually they pulled up to a large warehouse made of tan steel and Scott had flashbacks to driving past that National Guard Armory back in Beacon Hills, wondering if he'd be enlisting there one day. The large sign above the door informed that the place was simply called "Dogs for Vets" and Stiles parked near the entrance in a space designated for customers only. Scott had to reach across his body to open the car door, following his best friend out and into the building, Stiles holding the glass door open for him.

The foyer had laminate floors and white walls, the AC making it chilly compared to the fair spring day outside. Posters decorated the walls, a notice board on the left covered in leaflets for various veterans services and group meetings. He spotted one for Derek's group and glanced at Stiles, his best friend more preoccupied with heading to the counter in the back that stretched across half the space. Behind it, a hallway bisected the building space, stretching for about twenty feet, a pair of doors on either side and one at the end with a sign he couldn't quite make out from that distance.

Behind the counter sat a caramel skinned teenager, more interested in her phone than who had just walked in. Scott looked around and made note of every crevice of the room, every exit and entrance, cautiously looking over his shoulder at the glass door every few seconds and making sure none of the doors in the hall suddenly opened. He moved to Stiles' side, prepared to duck behind the counter and yank his friend down with him should the emergency arise, mind racing with a plan to save the girl.

Then again, if a tango emerged from the back, chances were they'd go for the girl first, an easy target, and there'd be nothing he could do to save her.

The fingers of his left hand curled into a fist, right arm hanging limp, and he felt helpless. Coming here had been a mistake, just another exercise in futility that proved how out of sync with the world he'd become.

A door opened on the right side of the hall and Scott's head snapped to it, right hand trying to teach back for a submachine gun that was no longer there. A dark skinned woman slowly emerged, dressed in firm-fitting khakis in army green and a black polo with the company logo on the chest. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, face in minimal make-up and as she headed toward the counter, Scott could make out scars on her face and neck.

She raised her hands in supplication, an Army tattoo visible on her forearm, and Scott felt some of the tension left him at the realization she was a friendly. "At ease, soldier," she said softly, edging past the counter and approaching the two visitors. "Lieutenant Braeden Masters, former US Army," she introduced and Scott saluted her with the wrong hand, hoping she'd understand rather than take offense. The soft smile she sent his way said she did and she returned the gesture with a salute of her own.

Stiles extended his hand and introduced himself, Braeden shaking it before turning to Scott. His left hand reached out as he gave his name and she smoothly switched her right for her left to shake it, not hesitating with confusion or asking questions or pitying him in any way. He felt himself relax even more knowing he was around someone who got it.

Braeden led them into the office she'd just exited with a sarcastic "thanks, Violet" shot over her shoulder, most likely aimed at the teenager more interested in her phone than her job. The space was small but comfortable, a desk across from the door with a window behind it, blinds open. Two chairs sat in front of the desk for guests, a table to the right holding a printer-fax-scanner combo and a Keurig machine, various K-cups, mugs, sugars, sweeteners, and powdered creamer in organized trays beside in. On the left side of the room were shelving units filled with books and framed photos Scott couldn't look at too long, pictures of soldiers in their fatigues, Braeden in her dress blues meeting important figures. Behind the open door were two black filing cabinets, tray tower on top of one, a plastic organizer full of pamphlets on the other.

Braeden asked if it was okay to close the door, allowing Scott to make the decision and he nodded, sitting half-turned in his seat so he could see both the desk and door at any given moment. She didn't comment on anything as she took her own seat and chances were Stiles was used to the behavior with Derek, so his mouth was shut as he sat to Scott's right.

"So," Braeden began as she tapped some keys on the laptop sitting near the corner of her desk and Scott felt a little bit of the commander in her voice. When whatever page she wanted was pulled up, she turned to Scott and folded her hands on the calendar on her desk. "Do you mind if I ask about your military and combat experience?"

He shuffled in his seat, fully facing her and sitting upright as a show of respect towards her. "US Army. Three tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Was honorably discharged about three months ago after my Humvee drove over an IED and my arm suffered severe nerve damage." His left hand subconsciously reached over and began rubbing said arm and he caught Braeden's dark eyes following the movement.

"Four months," Stiles spoke up from the side. "He was discharged four months ago."

Scott's eyebrows raised in surprise. Had he seriously been out of it that long?

Braeden typed some things on her laptop before turning back to him. "What are you hoping to find with us?"

He frowned in thought. In all honesty, he wanted to find a way to get Stiles off his back. At least that had been the reason why he'd originally agreed to come. But over the past couple days, he'd put more thought into it, mainly as mental preparation for what was gonna be happening. Yet he found himself thinking further ahead than this initial meeting, wondering what kind of dogs they'd have, what kind of work would be involved, would it actually help him, did he even want to be helped.

He didn't know the answers to a lot of his questions, but the last one was a "yes". It was clear when he received a text from his mom or felt a burst of panic at leaving his house or saw the look in Stiles' eyes that he tried so hard to hide, the part of him that missed being able to bullshit around with his best friend. Scott missed that, too.

"I have combat PTSD," he stated quietly, slowly. Stiles twitched out the corner of his eye and Scott realized it was the first time he'd ever really admitted it out loud. "And a bum arm and I. And therapy just. It wasn't really working for me, not really."

Braeden nodded with a knowing glint in her eye and it gave him the courage to go on.

"I've been holed up in my house for, like, two? Three weeks?" he continued, Stiles nodding as back-up. "And I don't wanna do that anymore. I know my life will never be the way it was before I went overseas but I. I wanna get back—I want it to be as close as possible. But I can't handle the outside world or the flashbacks or—" he waved his left hand around. "Or any of that shit. I need help. I need someone to have my six so I can ease my way back."

A soft smile spread in Braeden's face, distorting the scars on the left side. "I do believe we can help with that."

Scott let out a long breath and felt the first sense of relief he'd had in years.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Braeden described the program in detail, everything it would entail. It wasn't as simple as picking a dog and taking it home the way pet adoption typically worked. There would be training involved, bonding exercises between himself and the dog, all to ensure the dog's safety and well-being as well as Scott's and to make sure he got what he needed from his therapy animal.

More questions were asked about his lifestyle, where he lived and worked, his activity level, what size or breed of dog if he had a preference. Scott said he wanted a bigger dog and Braeden warned that bigger dogs stay energetic puppies longer, especially males. Stiles chimed in and stated that Scott needed a male dog then as he also needed a bigger push to get out the house. Having to walk and play with a hyperactive dog would do that.

Information was taken so a required background check could be run, Braeden explaining it was nothing personal, the foundation just needed to be certain the people receiving animals were combat veterans and that the dogs would be taken care of. Scott informed her that he used to work as a vet assistant and had once wanted to be a vet, something that earned him a smile as she typed a note in what he now knew to be his file. An appointment for a home visit was made around Stiles' shifts should he could be there for support and Scott realized he was gonna have to keep his place clean.

He hadn't even received a dog yet and already it was helping him get his shit together.

With a handshake and a stack of pamphlets and booklets, Stiles and Scott left, the latter feeling vaguely optimistic about his future.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The home inspection took place the following Thursday and went relatively painless and easy. He needed to install a new shelf to store laundry items out the way and was warned that if he took his dog outside, they'd have to stay on a leash so they wouldn't run away, since neither his front or back yards had any sort of barrier or fence. Stiles brought up a nearby park that had a fenced in area for dogs and the inspector from Dogs for Vets was satisfied, giving him the okay to adopt.

Two days later found Scott and Stiles back at the center. Braeden led them down the hall this time, the door at the end featuring a sign that said " _Dog Area_ ", the employee leading them through it and into another hall. There were two rooms on either side of them once again, these featuring half-doors and Scott peered inside each one, finding tough carpet, a bench, water bowls, and a couple toys in each.

"These are so you can spend time with a dog one-on-one, see if it'll be a good fit before you begin training," Braeden explained, pausing by the rear door, the sign declaring it as the " _Training Area_ ". "In here are a few dogs that have gone through their own basic training and are ready to be partnered with someone. As requested, they're mostly big male dogs but we have a few medium sized ones just in case."

Scott nodded, feeling his heart pound in anxiety over what could possibly be behind the door and he took a step back without realizing. A hand clapped on his shoulder, making him jump, then it squeezed and he turned to find Stiles giving him a reassuring smile. Taking a deep breath, Scott shored his courage and nodded once, silently communicating to his best friend that he was okay. Turning back, he found Braeden waiting with a hand on the doorknob, giving him a moment. He gave her a nod also and she opened the door, leading them inside.

The spacious place was well air conditioned and bright, the steel walls exposed and lights hanging from twenty-foot high rafters. Scott's eyes automatically ran over them, checking for anyone hidden, then looked around the room itself. Five feet ahead was a tall chain link fence with a gate, warning signs about how it must be closed at all times across it. Beyond it were three handlers and several dogs of varying breeds and sizes, chasing toys and each other, barks sounding out as they waited for someone to throw the ball.

"Our dogs are well-trained to remain professional when on duty and they know when their vest goes on, they're to be silent and still and behaved," Braeden explained, turning to the two visitors with a wry grin. "But they're still dogs and they still need to play and have fun." With that, she led them to the gate, opened it and gestured for them to enter.

Stiles went first, Scott glancing around once more before following, Braeden joining and closing the gate after herself. A few of the dogs noticed the newcomers and ran over, tails wagging and tongues lolling. Scott recognized the breeds from his time at the animal clinic, remembering how he'd put a cast on a border collie's broken leg, how he'd given a rabies shot to a retriever, how he'd taken a poodle for a walk to stretch her legs.

Stiles was laughing as the dogs greeted him, too, Braeden smiling in a more subdued manner as she pet a golden labrador. Scott let whatever interested dog sniff him, giving ear scratches when they allowed, a twinge of a grin pulling up the corner of his lips. He'd once wanted this life, to be around animals. And while he knew his desire for that career hadn't changed, he was no longer sure he'd be able to, not with one good arm and one that felt like a loose hanging slab of meat on the worst days.

Still, it didn't diminish his love for the animals surrounding him. He'd always been more of a dog guy after all.

Something nudged against his left thigh and he peered down to find a German shepherd leaning against him. The dog was standing at attention, staring out at the room and all the other dogs as though watching for a threat, ears twisting this way and that with each new noise. Scott felt his lips pull again at how the canine had just taken to him, was protecting him without really knowing him. He felt a warmth in his chest and he moved his left hand to the front of the dog's face, the Alsatian giving it a cursory sniff.

"Hey, boy," he murmured quietly, scratching the top of his head between his pointed ears. "You giving me a hint."

The ear that had been turned to listen to him flicked to the front and Scott looked up to find a lanky guy jogging over, dressed in khakis and the center's black polo, brown hair shaved at the sides and curly on top. Scott felt his heart pound in his chest and the dog licked at his hand in comfort. He moved it to the shepherd's neck, feeling the soft fur and the warm flesh, his heart calming with each stroke. By the time the guy was close enough for Scott to make out the name "Brett" on his tag, he was no longer panicking or frozen with fear over socializing.

"That's Dex," Brett stated, pointing to the Alsatian as he drew to a stop two feet away. Close enough to be heard, but not too close to freak anyone out. "He was actually the runt of his litter. Still on the small side but we're pretty sure that's as big as he's gonna get, height wise at least."

Scott looked down at Dex, the dog lifting his head and peering up at him with brown eyes. The human could relate. He'd been the smallest on his lacrosse team, at boot camp, in his platoon. Hell, his platoon mates had actually nicknamed him "The Runt" and he'd had it written on his helmet and gear in Sharpie. Staring into Dex's eyes, he felt a connection and knew they were kindred spirits, that they were meant to be in one another's lives.

Lifting his head, he turned to find the rest of their group, still surrounded by curious dogs. "Hey, Braeden?" he called out, waiting until she looked at him. "This is the one."

Dex nudged at his side like he knew what was being said and agreed and Scott knew it was the beginning of a special relationship.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Training took place four afternoons over a week's time, all under Braeden's supervision. Stiles attended the first one with Scott, most likely to ensure Scott even went. But when it was obvious that the veteran was committed to the process, he backed off and Scott make the trip alone.

In the interim, Scott ordered what Dex would need off the internet: bed, collar, food, treats, toys. He told his mom what he was doing and she seemed genuinely glad he was taking a step towards betterment and reintegration. It brought him a small amount of joy to know he was making his mom proud once more and he held on to the feeling, hoping it would help sustain him, motivate him to seek more of it.

He also established a new routine for himself. Braeden had advised that all their dogs were literal creatures of habit, so it would help them both out to go ahead and get in some good habits himself. So he started waking up at a normal time every day, went to bed at a reasonable hour, too. No more lazing about, as much as he could handle, coming up with a good cleaning schedule, trying to eat when he was supposed to. Some days it was exhausting and felt like too much work, but then he'd think of the giant Alsatian that was waiting to come home with him and realized it would all be worth it in the end.

He picked Dex up a week after meeting him, the big dog glad to see him. Braeden gave more last minute instructions, as well as the vest Dex would have to wear when in public, the shepherd having been trained to realize that when the vest went on, it was time to be serious and do his duties. With a final "good luck" and a "call if you need anything", Scott and Dex were on their way home.

The shepherd made his small house seem smaller, Dex's head easily reaching over the top of counters and forcing Scott to learn not leave food laying on them. But it was worth it to have non-judgmental companionship around.

It wasn't long before the two of them fell into a routine, thanks to Dex's training. Not only did the dog know to stop a nightmare, but also wake his owner in the morning and make sure he got out of bed—mainly by pulling the comforter back then tugging on his shirt until he got up. Scott soon learned that if he wanted to keep his shirts in tact and not stretched out, he needed to get up and moving when the alarm went off. The two would then go out for a walk and stop at the nearby dog park so Dex could stretch his legs and work off some energy before they headed home. Most of his day was still spent on the couch, not quite up to going outside more than necessary to take care of Dex's needs.

Stiles stopped by after a week to see how the two of them were both settling in and Dex spent most of the time sniffing at Stiles' legs, most likely smelling Derek's own dog Triskele on his pants, his harness off and allowing him to just be a dog. Derek offered short, concise text messages of advice that he'd learned from personal experience and offering support should Scott need it. And while he appreciated them both, he kinda just wished they leave him alone.

It was another week after that when Scott began venturing out with Dex during busier times of the day, mostly just to shut Stiles up. He still wore long sleeves to cover the scars on his arms, despite the weather getting warmer, and fought the urge to wrap a scarf around his neck to hide the warped skin there. They went for walks downtown and he took Dex with him to the pet store to pick up food. The shepherd wasn't allowed in every store since he was a therapy dog and not a service one, but those that he could go in, Scott tended to venture into. A couple friends from high school named Mason and Liam worked at the local grocery store and would look the other way when Scott brought Dex in, trusting that the dog would behave himself.

And he did. Dex was a model dog and a true testament to the Dogs for Vets program. The only time he let loose was at the dog park when his harness was off and even then, he still listened to Scott's commands to come, fetch, catch, sitting still when the harness was put back on. He didn't even bark when someone walked by the house or knocked on the door, instead emitting a warning growl, rather than a sudden loud noise that would possibly frighten Scott.

But best of all, was the comfort Dex brought Scott. Whenever the human felt himself start to panic in public, he could reach down and pet the shepherd's head, focusing on the feel of the fur and the heat of his skin instead. Dex acted like a buffer between him and the rest of the world, just as it had been explained to him, helping him to ease into life.

Whenever Scott actually felt like going out and being a part of life anyway.

It was a month after Dex came home that their routine broke. The morning had been rainy and the grassy area of the dog park was muddy so Scott had to cut their playing short. The downpour they got stuck in on the way home had cleaned them both off, but Dex hadn't quite gotten the energy out his system, evidenced by his pacing around the house rather than sticking by Scott's side. Finally, the human had gotten enough of the restlessness and when there was a break in the rain, he decided to chance things and take Dex back to the dog park.

It was more occupied than usual but Scott focused on keeping his breathing even more than the few scattered folks. A couple Stepford wives were chatting with their lattes from the local coffee shop as their teacup fluffballs sniffed around them; a couple played keepaway with their black lab; a dark-skinned man was helping his daughter throw the frisbee for their mutt; and a solitary man was standing far away from the others with his hand outstretched, a German shepherd placing a tennis ball into it.

Scott had barely gotten the gate closed behind himself when Dex gave a jerk, catching him by surprise and tugging the leash out of Scott's hand. He gave a cry of “hey!”, the dog ignoring him as he took off running towards the other shepherd and the ball that had just been thrown. Okay, weird. Very fucking weird. Dex didn't normally do that, had never run off after another dog's toy or even run off at all without his harness being removed.

The rain had clearly fucked with him. All that pent-up energy he couldn't release that morning had screwed with his mind.

Scott called the dog's name, getting ignored as Dex snatched up the ball from where it had landed in the grass, racing it back to the man that had thrown it. Dex dropped it in his outstretched hand, earning a pat to the head and a rub to the side, over his vest. The man then grabbed hold of Dex's leash and began heading towards a side gate, the dog following along obediently.

What the fuck?

“Hey!” Scott yelled out, cracked out of the stunned frozen state he'd been in when Dex had taken off, running towards the man. “Let go of my dog!”

A few of the other owners glanced in his direction but he paid them no mind, more occupied with his own dog being hauled off by someone else. The man's actual German shepherd came trotting after Scott, probably just as confused over what was happening, and he rubbed at its ears to calm his racing heart down.

He'd been trying so hard to avoid confrontation since he'd gotten back, was done with fighting. He just wanted to live the rest of his days in peace and silence, nice solitary silence, but there was no way he could let this guy take his dog. It was fucking obvious. 

“Hey!” he called out again, the man stopping this time. “Are you blind? That's my damn dog!”

The man turned and Scott got a good look at him, drawing to a stop only a foot or so away. His features were sharp, angular, a few wrinkles on his face that made him appear distinguished rather than old. His sandy colored hair was free of any product yet impeccably styled in a slight side-swept look, long body dressed in charcoal slacks with matching jacket, black button down underneath. Aviator sunglasses were on his face and as Scott finished his visual assessment, he caught sight of a familiar white cane with red tip.

His jaw dropped and he looked down at the other shepherd who'd sat down next to him, noting a vest on its body stating that it was a service dog, do not pet.

Oh. Oh shit.

The man smirked, dimples creasing his cheeks, seeming more amused than anything. “As a matter of fact, yes, I am blind,” he quipped, voice deep and with an accent that made him seem like an English aristocrat. Between that and the way he held himself, he gave off the vibe that he was a man of great power, someone important, an alpha type. Scott almost felt like saluting the man or baring his neck in submission but instead he swallowed hard and willed his racing heart to slow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled meekly and Dex fought against the man's hold on his leash to move closer to Scott, to comfort his owner in the way he was trained to. “I didn't mean—”

“It's quite all right,” the man interrupt, still jovial and friendly, both intimidating Scott and putting him at ease. “I'm sure you meant no harm.”

“No, sir,” Scott answered on automatic, body language stiff, heart still racing, and Dex shuffled closer. His eyes darted down to the shepherd and his fingers twitched at his sides, wanting to reach out and pet him for comfort. But the soldier in him was bowing down to this superior man and he held off for fear of overstepping his boundaries, of doing something without permission. “May I have my dog back, sir?”

The man frowned, before reaching down and running his hand over Dex's head. Yet his face stayed looking straight ahead, almost unnervingly so, and Scott the urge to squirm under a steady gaze that wasn't there.

“Oh,” he commented, fingering Dex's oversized ears and the way they were laying lopsided on his head as they usually did. “It seems as though I've made a mistake. I beg your pardon.”

“It's quite all right,” Scott quipped back, making the man breathe a laugh through his nose. “You felt German shepherd and a working dog vest. Easy mistake to make. Plus my dog wasn't exactly following his training for a moment there.” He glared down at the dog in question and Dex just stared back at him, flatly, unimpressed and unintimidated.

Jerk mutt.

The man chuckled lowly, extending the hand holding the leash. “Here. With my sincerest apologies.”

Scott took hold of the leash with a murmured “Thank you, sir,” and Dex rose to his feet from where he'd been sitting. Only instead of coming to Scott's side, he moved to sniff at the other German shepherd, who then stood and helped initiate a mutual butt-sniffing circle.

“Perhaps I could impose upon you and enlist your services into finding my own dog?” the man requested, a friendly smile on his face, and Scott was hit with a small pang of pity that he couldn't see what was right in front of his face—or rather, right at his own feet. Then he quickly shoved the feeling aside, knowing how much he hated when people expressed the same emotion towards him when they found out about his Humvee being blown up.

“Actually, your dog is right here, meeting mine,” Scott stated with a grin that was more of a grimace, suddenly glad the man couldn't see his expression.

“Ah, good. Duchess,” he called before letting out a sharp whistle.

The German shepherd lifted its head—or presumably _her_ head, with a name like “Duchess”—at the whistle, before picking up the end of her leash and stepping over to her owner. She nudged her head under his free left hand and he felt around until he could grab hold of the leash, taking it from her.

“Good girl,” he praised, the dog moving to his side and facing the same direction he was.

Scott side-eyed his own dog, hoping Dex was paying attention and taking notes.

“Duke!” a female voice yelled, drawing Scott's attention towards the side fence. A well-dressed female stood there, large sunglasses on her face, arms folded over her gray dress, dark hair hanging loosely about her bare shoulders.

“Ah. That would be my assistant, Kali. Most likely wondering what is keeping me,” the man—Duke, possibly?—commented, Scott turning back to him. “If you don't mind me imposing once more,” he began, that same friendly smile on his face, and he was so damn charming that Scott wondered if he was ever turned down for anything. “Could you possibly help me towards the side gate. I seem to be a bit turned around and lost at the moment and Kali would only pass through that gate if it were life or death.”

His heart began pounding at the thought of being so close to someone, of someone touching him, only to realize he had nothing to worry about. His scarred arm was well-hidden and from the looks of things, Duke would be on his left, not touching it. Then his training kicked in and he knew there was no way he couldn't not help, couldn't not offer assistance to someone in need.

“Of course, sir,” Scott replied immediately, earning a laugh.

“The 'sir' is highly unnecessary,” he pointed out, folding his cane up then extending his right hand. “Would you mind?”

Scott nodded before remembering, muttering out another “of course” then holding his arm right under the man's hand. Grip firm on Dex's leash, he got them turned in the right direction and began leading him at a leisurely pace towards the gate, the dog's leash crossing his body as he held it in his opposite hand.

“I don't think I've ever heard your voice at the park before,” Duke commented, head held high, his inability to see not affecting his ability to express his power.

Scott winced, glancing down at Dex and clearing his throat before he spoke. “I'm usually here earlier in the morning but it was raining. Dex needed the extra play time.”

“Ah, I see,” Duke said with a small smile and Scott wished he could see the man's eyes, could see what emotion was playing in them. “Duchess and I are usually here around ten so she could stretch her legs. Perhaps we'll both run into you again one day, since our dogs seem to be friends now.”

His heart pounded for something other than fear, Dex purposely brushing against his leg, and he shoved aside any thoughts over what that could mean. “Maybe,” he mumbled as they reached the gate, the assistant still on the other side of the chainlink fence, typing away on her phone.

“We're running behind,” she commented in a gruff manner, eyes still focused on the phone screen. Scott took her in, noting coffee colored skin and the sleek predatory appearance that reminded him of his old therapist. Text sent, she locked her phone and lifted her head, giving Scott an assessing look of her own. Mocha painted lips twisted before pulling back to reveal perfectly white teeth and he was suddenly reminded of wild animals baring their teeth in a threatening manner. “I can take it from here.”

Scott stepped back, moving Dex to his left as Kali opened the gate, Duke pausing before crossing the threshold, turning to him instead.

“I didn't catch your name,” he pointed out, friendly smile back on his face.

“Scott McCall,” he replied, debating on whether he should extend his hand or not. He really didn't want Duke to notice the scars on the back of it and he also didn't wanna look like an ass stretching his hand toward a blind man. Social protocols never prepared him for that.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr McCall,” the man stated in the same charming manner he always did, reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket and slipping out a business card. “Hope to see you again some time.”

Scott took the card, watching as Kali moved to Duke's right side to help guide him away. Pulling his attention away, he looked down at the card he'd been given, feeling the expensive black stock paper, the gold embossed lettering simply stating “ _Deucalion_ ” and a phone number, a familiar logo on top that Scott couldn't place.

Shrugging it off, he slipped the card into his wallet then tugged Dex away, heading back into the dog park proper. He chalked it up to just a random occurrence, a chance meeting that would never happen again. But part of him, deep down, was hoping that wasn't all it was.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott took Dex for his usual play at the usual time the next day. With no errands to run and no housework to do, he ended up lazing on the couch. His recent reconnection with both Stiles and his mom meant he had their voices in his head nagging him, pointing out what a nice day it was, how he couldn't lay about all day, what a risk to his physical and mental health it was.

It was probably a weak excuse, but he used it to put Dex's leash on him at ten, to leave the house. Now that he was eating properly and putting weight back on, Stiles' latest nagging had been about getting in actual shape. It wasn't enough to be the right weight, comments over how physical health could help mental health. Of course, Derek had backed him up on it, his voice in the background of the previous night's phone call because Stiles had put Scott on speaker without Scott knowing.

As usual.

But Derek had been helpful, had suggested that Scott add light cardio to his daily routine, something more than just walking Dex. He didn't push Scott into going to physio or joining a gym, never forced him into something he didn't feel ready for. He also said there was no way Scott could ever be exactly like he was before he'd gone overseas, but he could still take steps to getting better. Scott was well-aware that Derek knew what he was talking about, his own experiences making his advice more easier to take than Morrell's, and he felt motivated enough to start that day.

The chance of running into the mysterious and charismatic Deucalion was also motivating but Scott wasn't entirely sure if he was ready to admit that to himself. So instead, he took a roundabout route, pretending like he just happened upon the dog park, acting as though he hadn't planned on it but since he was already there...

He tightened his grip on Dex's leash when they stepped into the park, the dog tugging hard like he had the day before. Scott glanced around as he locked the gate, spotting the same pair of Stepford wives and the father-daughter duo from the day before. To the rear was Deucalion, Duchess running back to him, ball in her mouth. Dex let out a whine and pulled once more but Scott held firm, commanding the dog to heel. With a huff, the shepherd fell in beside him, matching his pace as they walked over.

Duchess spotted them, dropping the ball in her master's hand before letting out a bark, tail wagging. Dex's tail wagged in response and Scott took pity, drawing Dex to a stop and taking his leash and vest off. The shepherd then took off running, Duchess already on her way over, and the two began sniffing at one another's mouths.

Deucalion turned his head so his ear was angled toward Scott and the younger man called out a greeting, figuring it was better to give a warning than suddenly appear next to him, scaring him. He knew he appreciated the same thing, had reached for a nonexistent gun when Stiles had once clapped a hand on his shoulder without Scott knowing he was even in the room, nearly pulled his arm out his socket with defensive maneuvers. Neither one made the same mistake again.

A smile formed on Deucalion's face, warm, inviting, and Scott felt something stirring in his gut that he ignored. “Ah, Scott,” he greeted as the other man stopped by his side. “What a pleasure to see you here once again. Dex feeling restless?”

“My friends want me to leave the house more often,” he explained, not exactly lying. Coming somewhere he knew well was a great comfort and definitely helped with pushing him out the door, as well as knowing there'd be someone he already somewhat knew, but he wasn't gonna say that out loud.

“Becoming too much of a shut in?”

Scott checked on the dogs, watching as they chased one another around, tails wagging and tongues lolling out their mouths. He folded his arms over his chest, feeling his scars through the henley he wore. “I, uh,” he began, not entirely sure if he wanted to continue. He hated admitting this shit to people, felt pathetic when his friends and family looked at him, knowing what they did.

But Deucalion was safe. Scott could say this shit then never see him again. He knew when the older man showed up at the dog park and it would be easy to avoid him, never run into him. He could even find a new park to take Dex to, if needed. Worse case scenario, he'd take Dex to his mom's and play with him there, deal with her pitying looks.

Okay, maybe not that last one. Mom's yard was definitely out.

“I have depression and agoraphobia. Part of my PTSD,” he confessed with a wince, hugging himself tighter.

Deucalion nodded slowly once, letting out a low “I see”, staring straight ahead as though he could actually see their shepherds wrestling for dominance as they played. “I suffered with the same thing after I lost my eyesight at age fifteen. I didn't leave my bed for weeks, even after leaving the hospital. Even considered just ending it, because what was the point of living if I couldn't see anything for the rest of my life. And the pity I received, the insincere condolences and the phony care. It seemed easier to just lay about and let myself waste away than deal with any of that.”

Scott stared at him, slight frown on his face, heart pounding in his chest. It was the first time anyone had accurately expressed how he felt, what he was experiencing. Yes, Derek had said he could relate, knew what Scott was going through, but they never spoke about things beyond that and in all honesty, sometimes Scott actually doubted Derek's word when he said it. After all, different people had different experiences and reacted in different ways. But there was a man stating eloquently and accurately what he was dealing with, better than he could've put it himself.

“Yeah,” he murmured absently, lips parted as his mouth hung slightly open. “How'd you get past that?”

“Therapy,” Deucalion answered, seesawing his head, and Scott grimaced. “Finding a purpose for my life, something to get me out of bed. My first guide dog Arthur helped a lot with that.”

Scott nodded, temporarily forgetting the other man couldn't see the motion. “Yeah. That's why my friend convinced me to get Dex. Well, that, and to help with the symptoms of my PTSD: the night-terrors, the panic attacks, the social anxiety.”

Deucalion gave an agreeing hum, chin slightly lifted. “And has Dex helped?”

A sheepish smile formed on his face and he shrugged a shoulder. “I'm out the house,” he said by way of answer and the older man breathed out a laugh through his nose.

“Small victories, Scott. They may not seem like such a big deal at the time, but when you look back at life and see all of the little things you've accomplished piled up, it amounts to an enormity of success that you could and should be proud of.” He folded his hands on top of his cane, a picture of regal pride of his own. “You should celebrate every victory as it comes. Today, you got up and left the house, whereas some time ago, you couldn't even accomplish that. Not only that, but you're socializing, holding a conversation with a stranger, something I'm sure felt like an impossible task not too long ago.” He turned his head to where Scott was standing on his left, eyebrows raised above his aviators in a knowing look that was just daring Scott to argue.

Scott had to turn away, finding the dogs in a game of chase once again, his heart pounding in his chest as he thought over Deucalion's words. Yeah, when it was put that way, he had made some progress in his recovery and reintegration, but... But in all honesty, he'd actually forgotten that Deucalion was a stranger. There was just something about the man, the way he held himself, the way he spoke, the way he seemed to relate to what Scott was going through, it just put the younger man at ease. It was a lot like talking to Stiles, to his mom, to any of his old friends before he'd been shipped off overseas and forgotten how to relate to people.

His mom used to say that he could be put in a room with a hundred strangers and by the end of the day, leave with a hundred new friends. Now, the thought of even a single stranger made Scott queasy and he felt as though the guy who was able to chat so easily had died in the Middle East.

“Still feels impossible,” he muttered and out the corner of his eye, he saw Deucalion's lips quirk up on one side, wrinkle deepening in his cheek.

“One day it won't,” the older man assured him. “Just as leaving the house once felt impossible but is now something you do on a regular basis.”

Scott turned to the German shepherds, finding Dex by his lopsided ears and longer legs, the black on Duchess' sides bigger and reaching closer to her stomach. He knew that Dex was a big part of why he was able to leave the house at times, why he was getting better at going to public places where other people would be. But something in the back of his mind pointed out how it was his own reasoning that had brought him to the park at that moment, that it had nothing to do with the dog—although Dex wouldn't complain, even if he had the ability to talk. It was his own desire to get out, his own form of motivation by thinking of Deucalion and how he'd be able to meet up with the older man once again.

Stupid really. He didn't know the man, knew even less about him an hour ago. His recent habits would've had Scott hiding in his house more, afraid to run into Deucalion again and be forced to strike another conversation. Yet, there he was, voluntarily. He'd gone to the park at that time, he'd walked up to Deucalion, he'd initiated conversation. It wasn't like Deucalion would know Scott was there, being blind and all. And save for another mix-up with their dogs, he never would've known.

So why the hell had he come? Why was he there? Why wasn't he awkwardly backing out with some lame excuse about needing to be somewhere else?

Okay, so the man could relate to Scott's depression and how it felt to have the world as you knew it ripped away as you were thrown into something entirely else where the only difference was you. But so could Derek. So could the support groups at the VA. So could thousands, if not millions, of random strangers online, should Scott seek them out. What was it about Deucalion?

Because he didn't know the old Scott, he realized. He had no expectations for him to go back to the way he had been before he'd gone overseas. And sure, the argument could be made that Derek didn't either, but chances were good that Stiles had filled his head with stories about Scott, about them growing up together and how they were. Deucalion had none of that. And because of that, there was no pressure to act a certain way, to go back to acting a certain way.

And Deucalion wasn't expecting any sort of miracle recovery either. While Stiles said he wasn't, Scott could still see a tiny gleam of hope in his eyes, in his words when he suggested certain things, certain activities or shows or food, any of that shit. It was like he was hoping the old Scott was just hidden inside and if he hit the right button, he'd pop back out.

It wasn't gonna happen. The old Scott was dead and buried along with his platoon mates.

Deucalion gave Scott a smile and turned his head as though watching the dogs, breathing in deeply and letting out a long sigh. “One day all of this will be easier and while it won't be exactly as it had been, you'll find a new way to live, a new way to be happy and at peace with the world. It won't be easy and it will take some time and a lot of work. But you're already on your way there, have already taken your first steps. The key is to keep going, to keep trudging along no matter how hard, and to learn that it's okay to ask for help and rely on others.”

Scott snorted. “Help tends to be shoved on me, even when I don't want it,” he commented flatly, thinking of his best friend.

“I'm sure they mean well,” Deucalion stated, tilting his head. “It can't be easy for them either. They've lost a loved one in a sense, even though you're still alive, and chances are they're having a tough time adjusting as well. Just not as badly or as obviously as you.”

He stared at the older man in awe, an epiphany sparking in his head. He honestly hadn't realized that. In his defense, he'd been a little fuzzy in the head and drowning in his own bullshit. It was hard to see past the black tunnel he felt stuck in, the hole he'd fallen into and was unable to climb out of. But now Deucalion was shining a light on those around Scott and he was seeing it for the first time.

Something settled in his chest, a feeling of understanding and being understood, and he swallowed hard against the sensation. “Are you a counselor or something?” he blurted out, unaware of the question forming in his mind before it escaped past his lips.

Deucalion let out a small chuckle. “No. I'm an attorney. My firm is downtown.”

Scott nodded at the information before his eyes went wide in realization. _Deucalion & Associates_ was one of those personal injury law firms that was constantly advertised on TV. Work place accidents, social security claims, car crashes. His dad used to call them ambulance chasing assholes, something Scott didn't quite understand in his young age. Now, he just didn't understand how the hell he didn't realize that when the man had introduced himself and handed him a business card.

Just dumb of him really.

“What about yourself?” Deucalion prompted, head turned to him. “Any occupation since your return?”

Scott winced, wringing the back of his neck. “No,” he grit out, dropping his hand with a slap to his thigh. “I'm still trying to figure that out.”

Deucalion nodded, reassuring smile on his face. “There's no rush. You sound relatively young.”

“I'm twenty-four.”

“There you have it,” he stated, smile growing. “Still plenty time to find yourself and what your interests are. Just worry about getting your head on straight and getting through a day without it feeling like a battle, then worry about a career later on down the line. Something like that is best to wait on, lest you become stuck with something you dislike.”

“Yeah,” Scott murmured absently, appreciating the understanding, the advice, but most of all, the way it was spoken. Not only was it free of judgment or ridicule or command, but it was soothing. The word choices, the accent, the timber, it all added up to something that Scott genuinely wanted to keep listening to for as long as Deucalion would let him.

Preferably forever.

It was then that Scott noticed the buzzing in his head was gone and his heart wasn't quite pounding the way it usually did and his stomach wasn't rolling. It was a sort of ease he hadn't experienced in a long time, a result from Deucalion's understanding, his words, his voice, his presence. So it felt like nothing to keep the conversation going, to feel the words form in his mind and let them slip out.

“I wanted to be a vet.”

Deucalion nodded in approval, smiling. “And perhaps one day, you shall be.”

A weak smile formed on Scott's face, lopsided like his jaw, and he ducked his head with a nod. “Hope so,” he mumbled, more to himself than anything, the words followed by a cry of “Duke!” from a distance. He looked over his shoulder to find the same well-dressed assistant from the day before—Kali, his brain supplied—face buried in her phone again.

“I must be off then,” Deucalion announced before letting out a sharp whistle. Both shepherds lifted their heads then came bounding over and Scott snapped his fingers at his left side, making sure Dex wasn't confused for Duchess once more. Deucalion put the vest on his own dog, made sure her leash was clipped, then turned back to Scott. “I hope I shall be able to chat with you again sometime,” he stated, warm smile on his face, and Scott felt his face heat up in a long forgotten way.

“Yeah. I'd like that.”

Deucalion smiled wider. “Me, too.” With that, he turned and let Duchess lead him to the gate, Kali opening it when they were close enough.

Dex let out a whimper, as though sad his playmate was leaving and Scott scratched behind his ear absently, rubbing his chest with the other hand and wondering why his heart was pounding when he wasn't feeling anxious.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott went back to the park again the next day at ten. He told himself it was because of Dex, because the dog instinctively knew when the hour was drawing near and grabbed his leash off the hook, carrying it to Scott as he was trained to in order to remind his owner that it was time to leave the house. Part of him considered calling Dogs for Vets, to ask why his shepherd was acting out—considering how going twice at that hour wasn't much of a pattern and therefore nothing Dex should've been used to as a routine—but he ultimately decided it wasn't worth it. It wasn't like Dex was doing anything bad, wasn't like he was completely unruly. He made a new friend and was excited. Besides, Scott knew deep down inside that he himself could use the extra fresh air and forced socialization.

Although if he were truly honest with himself, he knew it was more than that.

Deucalion arrived at the same time as them, at the side gate he usually left through, and Dex immediately began tugging on his leash to get to Duchess. Scott peered around, checking out the other people in the dog park, seeing the usual folks. Settled, he let Dex go then joined the other dog owner and the two wound up making their way to a nearby bench as their shepherds played together.

They discussed German shepherds, what it was like owning one, the energy and the loyalty and the unconditional love. Deucalion spoke of other sight dogs he'd had, another shepherd, a golden retriever, a lab, but admitted that shepherds were his favorite and he went back to them for his latest helper, “the lovely Duchess” as he called her with a smile. Scott asked about her name and his smile grew.

“Close friends of mine refer to me as 'Duke'. Seemed only fitting for the lady at my side to have a matching title.”

Scott felt his lips curl up at the corners ever so slightly, the expression shaky from a lack of wearing it and a small uneasiness in his gut. “So. Is she the only lady in your life?” he asked before even really thinking about it, not entirely sure why he was asking and brushing it off as just trying to keep the conversation going, being polite.

His mom should be proud.

Not that he was giving her a lot to be proud of those days.

Deucalion breathed out a laugh through his nose, a singular eyebrow quirking over his aviators as he tilted his head towards Scott. “Curious?” he questioned and Scott shrugged, forgetting for a moment that Deucalion couldn't see it. But his shoulder brushed against the older man's and he figured it was felt since he went on. “The only other lady in my life is my assistant Kali, whom you've informally met. There's no man either, if you were asking that next.” He turned his head to Scott with a slight smirk, dimple deep in his cheek.

Scott's face grew hot with an emotion he couldn't put a name to and he was glad the other man couldn't see it. He cleared his throat and rubbed his palms on the denim covering his thighs, shrugging again. “It wouldn't bother me either way,” he blurted, wondering when the hell he'd become so bad at the word vomit. Usually that was Stiles' habit.

“Glad to hear,” Deucalion answered with a lazy grin, turning back to where all the dogs were running around. “And yourself?”

“There's no—” he paused, shuffling in his seat again. It wasn't that he'd never thought about what his sexual orientation was exactly. When Stiles came out as pan, Scott had done his own soul searching to figure out who he was attracted to only to decide it didn't matter to him. He'd fall in love with whoever he fell in love with. “No one romantic.”

The older man made a thoughtful sound but gave no judgment, no clue as to how he felt about it. Not glad or relieved or upset. Just... unexpressive.

Scott wasn't sure how he felt about that.

“Another fantastic thing about having a dog,” Deucalion spoke up, a slight shift in topics that Scott was relieved for. “You're never alone and they make great companionship. However, there are certain things a dog cannot compensate for.” He gave a Scott pointed look as best he could and the younger man swallowed at the implication. “I'm not saying you must date or anything of that nature. I am, however, suggesting an increase in social behavior, making friends, things of that nature.”

Scott frowned, dark eyes trained down at his beat-up brown boots, lips twisting in thought. “Isn't that what I'm already doing?” he questioned, uncertain. “I'm here, out of the house, talking with you. Making a friend.”

Deucalion smiled, teeth on display and wrinkles forming on his face in a distinguished manner. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It became routine after that. Scott and Deucalion both arrived at the park at ten, would sit at the same bench as their dogs played, and talk. At first it was light conversation, superficial topics. How warm this spring was, stories about their dogs. Deucalion spoke about life in his office without going into details about any cases and Scott talked about his best friend the sheriff deputy who'd been shoving his nose into supposed mysteries since he could speak the words “ _Scooby Doo_ ”. And at the end of every day, Scott would help Deucalion to the side gate, always being sure to offer his left arm rather than his scarred up right one.

By the end of the first week, Scott gave Deucalion his number, programming it into his phone, although no texts were exchanged, save for one on a rainy day when the older man stated he wasn't going to make it to the park due to the weather but he hoped to see Scott the next day. Scott replied with a “see you then” and wound up jogging the neighborhood with a visibly bummed out Dex in a downpour.

Two weeks after first meeting Deucalion, Scott chatted more about his previous desire of wanting to be a vet, explaining his inability to pay for college and how the Army had given him scholarship money that he still hadn't touched. He admitted to still wanting to have that career, especially being around Dex so much, but the idea of going to school and being around all those people terrified the shit out of him. Deucalion suggested online school for general courses and the next day, showed up with a stack of information in a manila envelope outlining various schools and what they offered, a packet he'd had his assistant put together for Scott—much to her chagrin, giving the narrow eyed sneer she'd shot him when he'd walked Deucalion to the gate to meet her that day.

A week later, Scott put his scholarship money to use and enrolled at an online school whose credits would transfer anywhere, his classes beginning in a couple months. He spent his free time refreshing his memory of what he'd learned in high school, focusing on biology and math, knowing they were his weak spots and what he'd be studying once more.

He was almost reluctant to admit it, but it felt as though Stiles had been onto something when he suggested Scott get a therapy dog. And he was just as reluctant to admit out loud—or even to himself—that the positive changes in his life weren't entirely due to Dex, but to the man whom he spoke to on a daily basis at the park, the man who offered advice that was helpful without being pushy and who listened without any ulterior motives other than just wanting to hear what Scott had to say.

Over time, Scott began to notice a change in Dex. The German shepherd tended to be a brat with toys when it came to playing, always playing keep-away with frisbees or balls, to the point where Scott had learned to take a second one with him to coax the dog into dropping the one in his mouth so he would continue to fetch and get that energy out. But after a week of playing with Duchess, Dex had become more selfless, allowing the other shepherd to get the ball wherever it landed, dropping the toys so it could be thrown or picked up by the female dog. If Scott didn't know any better, it was almost as though his dog had a crush.

Scott himself was also changing, for the positive this time. He was venturing out more, no longer having groceries or every day items delivered, but going into actual stores. He still couldn't quite brave going without Dex for extended periods of time, the longest being dipping inside Starbucks for a drink or Burger King for food while Dex was forced to wait outside. And while he still had the habit of constantly glancing around himself to check for danger or anything out of the ordinary, his panic wasn't quite as bad, knowing that Dex would come for him if necessary.

He also started working out more, still on his own, but more than he had been. His walks with Dex had turned into jogs, then runs. He bought a small set of dumbells, a bar to go in his doorway for pull-ups, a resistance band, and a hand-grip tool to build up strength in his bum right arm. It wasn't perfect and he gave up more often than not, but it made him feel a little better that he was doing _something_. Stiles suggested returning to physical therapy but Scott shoved the idea aside, not ready to be surrounded by so many people once again.

April became May became June, the weather getting hotter, and Scott still wore his long sleeve shirts, still not comfortable having his gnarled skin on display. Scott and Deucalion began texting outside of canceled plans to meet, beginning with a thanks for the college information and an announcement of his enrollment. Soon it became smaller announcements, when Scott made a small step for his own independence, going out and being social. A visit to his mom and her boyfriend, meeting Stiles for lunch at a diner with outside seating. Deucalion began sending him random messages throughout the day also, stories from the office he thought Scott would enjoy, observations he'd made in his own unique manner, random comments over how their dogs seemed to have the better end of the stick and what it would be like to switch places with them for a day.

As the days wore on, the messages became deeper. Scott would turn to Deucalion on dark days when getting off the couch seemed impossible, even with Dex's help, when he'd been awoken by a night-terror, when he found himself having a panic attack and talking out what had triggered it. Deucalion would talk him down, talk him through it, never judging or pushing him to go back to therapy, no reminders that he'd had Morrell for those sort of conversations. And in turn, Deucalion began confiding in Scott over his own frustrations—as rare as they were—relating to the sense of uselessness that came with a debilitating mindset.

Two months into their friendship and Scott told Stiles about Deucalion, an off-hand coming that had slipped out when Stiles had snarked off about how Scott's only social interactions consisted of waving at strangers in the dog park. The deputy had been shocked at first but congratulated him in a sincere manner, following it up with a joking quip about how Scott's next step would be to get a second friend.

It was also then that Scott finally saw Deucalion outside of the dog park.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It began simple enough. Sometimes they'd go for coffee at the cafe down the street after their dogs had run around for a time. Once they met up for lunch at the same diner Scott had been going to with Stiles or his mom, Deucalion introducing Scott to his giant of a driver, a man named Ennis. Scott thought it would be strange to see Deucalion somewhere outside of the dog park, not surrounded by grass or chain-link fence, no barking or panting or hard wooden bench underneath their asses. But much like the development in their texting, it had felt...natural.

Still, the idea made Scott's heart pound in his chest and his skin tingle in a way he hadn't experienced since his ex Allison in high school, stomach full of butterflies that he knew couldn't be attributed to the panic of being in public but the nerves of being around someone he _liked_.

Which...well, of course he liked Deucalion. The man was well-educated, easy to talk to and relate to. Scott wouldn't continue meeting up with him or rearrange his play schedule to spend time with him if he didn't like the man. And yet, Scott had the distinct impression that there was more to it than the platonic feelings of friendship that he felt towards Derek or Stiles, a belief that it was more than just the knowledge that Deucalion was going to be a very close friend that Scott would have for a long time.

No. Scott was gaining a crush.

The knowledge of that had him freaking out and unable to comprehend how it could even happen. He knew he needed to talk it over with someone and part of him felt the urge to actually call Morrell up and discuss it with her, only to dismiss the idea as soon as it had come to him. She wouldn't get it, wouldn't fully understand the weight of it all, not with her perfect little life and her unfucked-up head and her ability to form normal relationships with people. So he turned to the one person he knew would get it.

Derek met him at the dog park with his retriever Tris on a Saturday afternoon wearing a Navy t-shirt and olive cargo shorts, leg prosthetic confidently on display. Scott subconsciously rubbed at his gnarled forearm through his longsleeve as the afternoon went on, his hand continuously trying to cover the warped skin on his neck as he spoke of his life, of Deucalion, of what the man was starting to mean to him.

“I get it,” Derek stated genuinely, throwing the ball for his dog to chase, slight scowl on his face that Scott knew wasn't personal but rather Derek's default expression. “I was the same when I met Stiles. My head was still full of shit and nightmares still plagued me. I felt like.” He paused, huffing as he tried to think of the right way to word it. “I felt like I wasn't good enough or together enough, maybe even human enough to be able to handle just... _being_ with him the way he needs or wants someone to be with him. And I'm still not perfect, still don't feel like I have all my shit together, but I'm better than where I was. And I'm not saying that being with him is some magical fix-it or whatever. The only person who can really fix you is you, but.” He paused again, hand outstretched as Tris dropped the ball in his palm and he launched it once more. “But it's definitely a good motivation to help you on your way.”

Scott nodded as he threw the ball for his own dog, Dex back to not sharing and only giving his toy up to Scott because he noticed how much fun the retriever was having. He thought over the improvements he'd made to his life since he'd met Deucalion, both at the man's gentle urging and out of his own motivation to wanting to be better. Deucalion had told him countless stories of his own depression and his struggles to get his life together after losing his eyesight. But he'd done it, had gotten on track, and was now one of the most sought after personal injury attorneys in all of Beacon County. His story was a motivational one and being around him gave Scott a drive to be the same way, to create his own success story, to be worthy of standing next to him and being his friend.

“There's nothing wrong with gaining feelings for someone,” Derek continued, drawing Scott's attention back. “And there's nothing wrong with not gaining feelings for someone. There's nothing that says you have to act on it or give in to it or acknowledge it beyond just admitting to yourself that you have a crush.” He paused to throw the ball, turning to look at Scott full-on. “You're banged up, you're scarred up, you're feeling like you're damaged goods, but you aren't ruined beyond repair or undeserving of anything good. Falling in love, going to school, the freedom to do those things, it's why we fought in the first place.”

Scott nodded again, understanding the points and feeling better for Derek's words. He may not be what he once was and chances were, he'd never be again. But he could be better than what he was at that moment and even with his head being so messed up and his arm being halfway useless on the best of days, it didn't mean he couldn't have something good.

If Deucalion even felt the same way.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The realization of his feelings sparked a sort of paranoia within Scott. He became hyperaware of everything that happened between himself and Deucalion, more so than he already had been due to carefully honed instincts the Army had fine-tuned. He felt awkward in a way he hadn't since first meeting the older man, carefully thinking out every response in the hopes of not making any feelings too obvious, grateful that his constant blushing and grimacing at what an idiot he sounded like would all go unseen.

He also found himself over-analyzing every word that Deucalion himself said, searching for any clues or hints of anything that went beyond platonic friendship. He felt himself slowly going crazy with it, especially when he was unable to interpret certain actions as meaning more than what they seemed or if he was simply so out of practice with normal socialization that he was taking it the wrong way. Or maybe it was wishful thinking, a hope that his feelings were returned so he was imagining things that weren't there.

It all came to a head at the beginning of July when Scott received a text from Deucalion inviting him—and Dex—over to the man's place for his birthday that evening. Scott proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon freaking out, despite Dex's many attempts to settle him, trying to decipher the meaning behind it. Finally he gave in and called Derek, who had his phone stolen by Stiles mid-convo and forced onto speaker. Derek told him to relax and not stress out about it so much, Stiles told him he was reading into it too much and that chances were it would be some boring ass party with his work colleagues, but he should go for the free food and tell Stiles all about the assholes. The only reason his best friend didn't invite himself was that he was scheduled to work and Derek had a group meeting to lead.

Small favors, Scott figured, although he wasn't entirely sure if he was glad his friend wouldn't be there to embarrass him or upset his friend wouldn't be there to support him.

Deucalion lived in a high-rise downtown, complete with a doorman who didn't even blink at the sight of a visitor walking in with a dog. Scott took the stairs up the ten flights, getting winded by the time he reached the top, but hating the idea of being trapped in an elevator. He kept continuous watch above and below in case someone suddenly popped up for an attack, Dex seeming to be just as alert as he was.

The penthouse floor featured two apartments taking up the entire space and Scott chose the one on the left, apartment 10-A, ringing the bell by the door. Kali answered, giving him an up and down look and pursing her lips in the disapproving manner she always seemed to regard him in. Scott resisted the urge to shift where he stood, mind filling with random thoughts over how predators could smell fear and not wanting to give her the chance to pounce. Instead, he raised his free right hand in a wave and gave her as big a smile as he could muster, no longer offended by the snort of disdain she always sent in his direction.

Kali turned away and stepped into the apartment, leaving the door open in a wordless invitation. “Duke! Your guest is here!” she called out, only a hint of disapproval in her voice before she glanced at Scott over her shoulder, another sneer on her face as though she couldn't understand why anyone would invite him, of all people, over.

Scott glanced down at his outfit, his nicest black jeans and a matching button down, suit jacket on top and a tie in his pocket just in case. He'd been told it was a semi-casual affair but in his experience, those words meant nothing. He figured with the kind of money Deucalion appeared to have, he would run with a high end crowd and the last thing Scott wanted to do was stick out and embarrass the man with his inability to dress appropriately.

Smoothing his jacket, he stepped into the apartment, Dex by his side, and closed the door behind himself. The place was made up of warm woods, the floor perfectly polished, Scott's Converses clicking as he walked. A hallway made up the entry way, walls a nice shade of burgundy, coat rack on the left and table on the right with a small bowl containing a set of keys, umbrella stand next to it. The space opened up past that, open-concept, with the kitchen area on the right with wooden cabinets and stainless appliances. The right was a large living area with leather couches and a large fireplace that was already lit, gray stone covering it with a wooden mantle featuring bronze bookends in the shape of German shepherds.

A large dining table was seen near the back of the space, long with eight chairs around it, mostly empty save for two settings. It was then that Scott noticed the apartment itself was empty, no other guests, no decorations, no waiters with trays of drinks or hors d'oeuvres. Just Scott standing in the middle of this large penthouse as Kali carried two plates of food from the kitchen and placed them on the dining room table.

His heart began pounding in his chest and he felt his palms grow sweaty. Two places had been set and he'd been personally invited so clearly one of those settings was for him and the other one was for Deucalion. And yes, okay, he knew that friends hung out and had dinner together. He and Stiles did it often enough before Derek came along—after Derek came along, too, now that he thought about it. But generally there wasn't a fire going and there wasn't an assistant lighting candles on the table and along the island counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. This seemed... _romantic_.

Holy shit. Maybe Scott's feelings had been returned. Maybe his crush wasn't a one-way street. Maybe his initial worry over the text invite wasn't so far-fetched. Maybe...

Dex nudged his hand and gave him a low whimper, most likely in response to the way Scott's heart was racing out of control and nerves had his breath getting caught in his chest on nearly every inhale. Kali cocked an eyebrow in his direction as she waved out the match in her hand, tossing it in a stainless steel trash can.

“Duke enjoys a little atmosphere with his dinner, even if he can't see it. He says his guests can enjoy the ambiance and the mood it puts them in allows him to enjoy it as well.”

Right. Of course. It wasn't like they could go out to some fancy ass restaurant, not with Scott's lack of funds and excess of agoraphobia he still hadn't fully tackled, so Deucalion was bringing the five-star feeling to his apartment. Nothing but the best for a guy like him.

Scott nodded to show he understood, hiding the disappointment he was feeling as his heart sank, sifting his fingers through Dex's soft fur. Really, he should be grateful that it was a Friends Only type of dinner. Less pressure that way, less need to impress, less awkwardness as he realized he hadn't really been on a date since he was seventeen. He was already so out of practice with just socializing on a day-to-day basis. Dating was a whole other thing entirely.

A door opening distracted him and he turned to see one moving on the right side of the penthouse, a large square room in the corner that Scott had initially glanced over, standing opposite another room on the other side of the living area. He watched as Deucalion exited in jeans and a button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Scott's breath caught in his throat and his heart began pounding, barely registering that Dex was nudging his left side again, more focused on how Deucalion's head turned in his direction. Shit. Scott had been hoping his reaction had gone unnoticed, but it turns out the older man had caught it.

An easy grin spread across Deucalion's face, dimples forming in his cheeks, those aviators still covering his eyes as always. Scott found himself smiling in return, even though it wouldn't be seen, and wishing the shades were gone. He wanted to see Deucalion's eyes for once, wanted to see if removing those glasses would allow Scott to get a better glimpse into how the older man was feeling, what he was thinking. A clue as to how to act would've been awesome.

Dex let out a noise that was half-whimper, half-huff, reminding Scott of a horse whinnying, and he peered down at his faithful companion to find the dog staring at Duchess, his tail thumping against the hardwood floor as he sat there. It was clear the shepherd was dying to greet his new friend, but his training was overriding that, forcing him to sit in place. Scott felt bad for him, especially when he noticed Duchess was without her harness and vest, staring up at her own handler as though wondering what to do.

Deucalion breathed out a laugh through his nose, smile on his face once more. “If you wish, I have no problem giving young Dex the night off, but I understand if you'd prefer to keep him by your side and on duty. This is a new place that you are not familiar with and I would take no offense if you were nervous or panicking in any way due to that fact.”

Scott's head reared back as he looked at the other man, surprise overtaking him. Not once had he considered being nervous over the fact that it was an unfamiliar place he would be spending time in, but rather who he'd be around. And since it was now obvious that it would just be the two of them—and Kali, he remembered, seeing her out the corner of his eye as she returned to the kitchen and turned her back on them, opening a drawer—Scott felt no more anxiety over being surrounded by strangers, being forced to socialize, being made uncomfortable as he was dragged through excruciating small talk and inane commentary over things he didn't understand nor care about. No, the knowledge that it would be just the two—possibly three—of them was a relief and a comfort. Deucalion always managed to put Scott at ease with his understanding manner and there was no need to put on any sort of false front and act like he was a perfectly normal, well-adjusted member of society.

So no, he wasn't worried about being in a new place.

He was, however, nervous about being around someone he only recently realized he liked as more than just a friend, but he didn't need Dex as a security blanket for that. Hopefully Kali could act as a buffer, as an unknowing aid in forcing Scott to act normal, if for no other reason than he didn't want to see her disdainful looks aimed his way anymore.

“It's fine,” he managed to croak out, clearing his throat as he lowered himself down to a knee and began unclipping Dex's vest, the Alsatian beginning to vibrate in excitement as he realized he was about to get some time off to just be a dog and be around his friend.

“Wine?” Kali questioned and it took Scott a moment to realize the question had been directed at him, not noticing until Dex had been freed and he himself had risen to his full height.

He looked back and forth between the lawyer and his assistant, lips parted in confusion at the fact that both were turned in his direction, Deucalion with his hands folded on top of his seeing-eye cane, Kali with an eyebrow cocked and an expression that spoke volumes of what she thought of him and how she'd rather be anywhere else doing anything else.

“Uhh,” he struggled, grimacing as he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the mangled skin on the right side against the ends of his left fingers.

“Chicken Marsala pairs excellently with either a white or a red wine,” Deucalion stated. Coupled with the posh accent and the fancy interior of his penthouse and it was obvious the man was well-educated on this, as well as most other things. “But personally, I enjoy a nice Chardonnay. It pairs nicely with the buttery gravy, as well as the tender meat and mushrooms. However, if you prefer, a Pinot Noir also goes nicely with the earthy mushrooms and delectable sauce. I also have other liquor if you prefer, or perhaps even something non-alcoholic. It's completely up to you.”

Scott looked back and forth between the two, dumbfounded once more, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Chardonnay sounds fine,” he replied, aiming the words at both of them. He genuinely had no idea, had never been much of a wine guy, except for a glass or two of red at the holidays and maybe some champagne at New Years, just because it seemed like the thing to do. But he had a feeling that asking for a beer while having a fancy dinner in this fancy apartment with its fancy things didn't quite fit.

Not that he himself quite fit.

Deucalion gave Kali a nod and she reached under the island counter, pulling up a bottle of expensive looking white wine, tearing off the wrapping around the cork. Scott put Dex's vest on the back of the couch, followed by his jacket, feeling a little overdone when compared to Deucalion. Dex and Duchess were sniffing at each others mouths with wagging tails and Scott found himself endeared by the sight. If only human interaction was so easy.

Kali used a corkscrew to open the wine and carried it to the table, filling the glasses already there and setting the bottle aside, cork placed back in the top. “Anything else, Boss?” she asked as she turned to Deucalion, but not before giving Scott another assessing look that made him internally squirm.

“No. Thank you, Kali. Enjoy your evening,” Deucalion told her with a small grin, following the sound of her clicking heels as she headed back into the kitchen area. Scott watched as she pulled out a large purse from somewhere, gray with a repeating C pattern that was either Coach or Chanel—he had no clue which was which—giving her a wave at the final inquisitive look she gave him before she left the penthouse.

He tried to not take any of it personally, figured she was just looking out for her boss, but still there was a part of him that wondered what exactly her problem with him was, what he'd done to offend her so much.

Maybe it was just her personality, he thought. Wasn't like he really knew her all that well.

Turning back, he found Deucalion still smiling, the expression unexpectedly soft compared to the one he wore before, and the older man gestured to the table with a sweep of the hand. “Shall we?”

Scott nodded, forgetting, then mumbled out a “yeah” with a nervous smile. He took a step towards the table then paused, turning to the other man with a question on his face. But Deucalion had his cane out, tapping around him at the wooden square-shaped support pillars and the wall at the edge of what Scott assumed was a bedroom, making his way to the table without any need for assistance. So the question died on Scott's tongue and he slowly made his way over, taking the chair on the far side as Deucalion pulled out the closer one.

The dogs were playing tug-of-war with a rope toy, paying no attention to the humans as napkin rings were slid off actual fabric napkins, Scott rubbing his thumb and forefinger on the nice cloth before laying it over his lap. It was better than the fancy stuff his mom brought out at the holidays and Scott wondered if it was just because this was a special occasion or if Deucalion used it for every meal.

Which...

“I'm sorry I didn't have time to get you a gift,” he stated with a wince, feeling like an asshole. This was his friend, one who'd invited him round for a frankly delicious as fuck looking meal, and he couldn't get a damn birthday gift. He could've at least picked up a card.

He could practically feel the whack upside the head his mom would give him if she knew and his hand absently rubbed the spot where the blow would happen, hoping the action would go unnoticed or excused away by Deucalion's keen sense of hearing.

The older man smiled, cane folded up and placed on the table where the next setting would be had there been other guests. “It's quite all right,” he replied, that accent soothing over any anxiety Scott felt at his bad manners. “I know I sprung this meal on you at the last minute. I assure you that the pleasure of your company is quite the gift in itself and frankly all I need in order to make this a fantastic birthday.”

The words had Scott's heart pounding in his chest and his lips parting and he had to mentally remind himself that the other man meant it in a friendly manner, that his thoughts were reaching, that he was imagining things that weren't there all because his feelings were clouding his judgment.

Dangerous territory, he knew, but in all honesty, he couldn't imagine spending his own evening in a better way.

“Well, I'm glad I could help give you a happy birthday,” Scott stated with a smile, fiddling with his cutlery as Deucalion picked his own up. “Although I gotta be honest, I was kind of expecting a big party or something.”

The lawyer laughed through his nose. “No, I'm not one for large gatherings. I prefer a more intimate setting, to spend time with quality people rather than a quantity of them, especially when the company is one I enjoy so much.” The same soft smile from earlier returned and Scott's heart beat faster, his face heating up.

Stupid, stupid crush.

“A toast,” Deucalion began, lifting his glass, and Scott did the same. “To great dinners with even greater company.”

“I'll drink to that,” Scott replied with a smile, clinking his glass against the other man's with a smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner went relatively smooth, despite Scott's moments of internalized panic over the fact that he was having said dinner with a man he was crushing on. Deucalion had been right about the wine, although Scott still couldn't understand things like “full body” or “oaked notes” or “rich mouth-feel”. He just knew it tasted good and that it went well with the flavor of his food, enhancing it and making it tastier.

Then again, that could've just been Kali's cooking. Scott honestly had no clue. He just knew the wine was delicious and he downed three glasses of the stuff.

After the food was finished, he carried the plates to the kitchen, despite Deucalion's insisting that he was a guest and would do no such thing. Scott simply pointed out that his mom would give him an earful and a half if she found out he'd left dirty dishes on the table for someone else to deal with. He also made them both a cup of coffee, Deucalion's fridge offering a variety of milk and creamer, also half-and-half should he chose, to use in his own, then they both settled on the leather couch. The fabric was softer than it appeared and Scott practically melted into the plush cushions, warmed by the glowing fire, the good food, the wine, and Deucalion himself sitting only a few feet away.

The dogs were both laying on a rug in front of the fireplace, Dex with his head on Duchess' body, snuggled together in a happy pile. Scott smiled at the sight, amused at the thought of the two shepherds almost dating in a sense. Or at least the canine version of it.

With his head leaning against the back of the couch, he turned to his right, to Deucalion, taking in the content smile on the man's face. He really was handsome, something that had just seemed like a general thought one would have over anything aesthetically pleasing. But the more he got to know the lawyer, the more attractive Scott found him, knowing it wasn't just a physical thing. Yeah, he had those distinguished good looks, a strong jaw and cut cheekbones, soft sandy hair and wrinkles that made him look dignified and experienced rather than old. But it was the care and understanding that Deucalion possessed that made him so appealing, the sophisticated way he handled himself, yet never haughty or pretentious, never believing himself to be better than anyone.

And it would be so easy for him to be just that, do just that. He was one of the most powerful people in all of Beacon Hills, if not Beacon County as a whole. He had money, notoriety, was well-established amongst the elite. Money, power, fame, he could roll over anyone, control anyone. But he never did. His personality, his behavior, his treatment of others was exactly the same as it would've been had he no money and was stuck as a public defender making pennies a day rather than the big bucks.

And it was that very thing that had Scott realizing his crush might've been bigger than just a crush.

Maybe it didn't matter if it wasn't returned, if the whole thing was one-sided. He'd had an incredible evening with a wonderful human being and Scott wasn't gonna regret any of it or ruin it by wishing for more. He knew he was lucky to even experience such a thing, to even be alive in the first place, when so many others didn't make it back from the Middle East. For him to ask for anything more than just a good friend was selfish and inconsiderate.

Mind settled, he smiled softly at the older man, at the casual way he was seated on his couch, right ankle resting on his left knee, coffee held on the arm of the couch. It was peaceful. It was nice. It was more than Scott could've ever hoped for even months ago.

“Thanks again for inviting me over,” he murmured lowly, watching as that soft smile spread across Deucalion's face.

“As I said, my birthday wish was to spend it with someone I enjoyed being around and that someone is you. I really am enjoying this evening.”

“Me, too.”

Silence descended, nothing more than the crackle of the fire and the sip of coffee Scott consumed.

“Although,” Deucalion began and Scott swallowed hard, throat hurting from the large gulp he hadn't meant to drink and the heat of the drink. The older man didn't notice, staring unseeing at the fire, earlier smile gone and replace with a serious frown that disappeared behind his aviator sunglasses. “I must confess to something, and I completely understand if this makes you uncomfortable and if you decide to take some space from spending time with me.”

Panic had Scott's heart racing and Dex lifted his head off of Duchess, ears flipped to one side and dark eyes zeroed in on his owner. Scott held a hand up in his direction, telling him to stay, not wanting to give away the fact that the conversation was giving him anxiety, why it would be giving him anxiety.

Fuck, what if his crush had been discovered? What if he'd been found out and Deucalion was about to let him down gently, say he didn't return those feelings and because of that, would understand if Scott needed to take time and space away to heal his bruised ego and shattered heart?

Damn him and his understanding manner.

“I do enjoy your company, a lot more than I initially thought I would when I first met you,” Deucalion continued and Scott hung on every syllable, fingers cranked down on his mug and eyes locked on his dog as thought garnering strength from him. “In fact, I seemed to find myself falling for you as more than just a friend and my reasons for inviting only you over for this evening haven't been entirely forthcoming. To be honest, part of me was using this dinner as a ruse of sorts, a fact of which I'm sorry about my hidden intentions, but I feared that if I were to ask you on a proper date, you would become uncomfortable or panic and I'd never see you again.”

“I'd say yes.”

Deucalion jerked in surprise, turning to him with eyebrows raised. “I'm sorry?”

“If you'd've asked me on a date, I would've said 'yes'.” A humorless laugh left Scott and he rubbed the back of his neck. “I'm not saying I wouldn't panic or anything. I mean, I was panicking at the idea of coming here when it was just an as-friends invite, plus I haven't really dated anyone in, like, six or seven years.” His laugh this time was more self-deprecating and he felt pathetic and weak and lame, smearing a hand down his face before he continued. “But I like you, too. As more than just a friend. And I would've really enjoyed going on a date with you. Still would enjoy it.” He cleared his throat, feeling awkward, embarrassed that he had just admitted all that. His face was burning, on fire, and he had the feeling he was as red as a tomato.

Not good.

At least he could rest assure that Deucalion wasn't gonna see it.

The older man looked as though he was fighting off a smile, caught between happy and wary, putting his coffee on an end table before turning to Scott fully. “I don't want you to say that just because it's what I want and you feel obligated. If you can't handle any of this or don't feel ready, just tell me and I'll understand completely. The last thing I want is for you to feel pressured into anything for any reason and it causes you undue anxiety.”

If Scott hadn't been into him before, he would've been at that moment. Because despite any attraction or feelings Deucalion had for him, he was willing to put it all aside or ignore it all for Scott's comfort. Completely selfless, not pushing anything on him, allowing things to develop at Scott's pace.

“I definitely want to take the next step, to try a relationship. But. Slow?” he finished with a half-shrug and a slight grimace, once again glad it wasn't seen.

“Slow,” Deucalion repeated, small smile on his face that showed he was perfectly alright with slow, that wasn't mocking or upset or judgmental with slow. “Sounds terrific.” His left hand slid across the couch, palm up with fingers slightly curled, a silent invite.

Scott stared at it, reached out with his right hand only to pause as he caught sight of the gnarled skin on it. His grip was still weak, fingers still unable to really curl. He thought of the Army doc he'd seen when he'd been returned to the US, the woman who had told him he'd never regain completely usability, that it would never work the same way as it had before, that there wasn't much more they could do about the scarring or nerve damage.

Deucalion had no idea about it, about any of it. Scott had only told him that he'd left the Army after an accident, that he'd been injured and honorably discharged. He never went into details about the accident itself or said injuries, just that it wasn't amputation of any form, and Deucalion being the respectable man that he was, never asked. Holding the man's hand, it would give all of that away and he wasn't ready for that conversation.

Deep down he knew that part of the reason why he was so comfortable around Deucalion was that the man was blind and therefore had never seen any of the scarring that covered half of Scott's upper-body, meaning there was no uncomfortable staring or questions. It allowed Scott to forget about it, to pretend as though it didn't exist. He wasn't ready to break that illusion, wasn't sure if he ever would be.

At least he wouldn't be any time soon, he knew that much.

So instead, he shuffled on the couch so he was facing the other man, right leg folded and laying flat on the couch, ankle on his left knee as his left hand reached out. He curled his fingers around Deucalion's as it lay waiting on the middle cushion, feeling his gripped right back.

A small happy hum came from Deucalion, that soft smile back on his face, head tilted down as though he could actually see their joined hands. “May I ask you something?” he began, Scott murmuring a “yeah”. “I've noticed that every time you assist me, it's always with your left arm. And right now, I can feel that this is your left hand. May I ask what the matter is with your right hand?”

Scott's heart thumped in his chest and his skin grew tight, Dex's head popping up again, both ears pricked up these times. “You can ask, but,” he paused, clearing his throat and shaking his head in the direction of his dog. “I'm not really ready to fully answer that.”

“I understand,” Deucalion assured, thumb rubbing the back of Scott's knuckles. “Whenever you're ready, I'm here to listen. About anything you wish you say, if you ever wish to say it. I won't push you.”

“I know,” Scott replied, grateful, giving the older man's fingers a squeeze.

Conversation drifted, lazy, peaceful, easy. Scott was able to forget about the world, about his past. He was no longer a physically or psychologically damaged former soldier. He was just a regular guy, talking to a man he liked, holding his hand as they drank coffee after a nice meal.

Time moved strangely, both slow and fast at the same time, and before Scott knew it, it was nearly eleven. He dragged Dex away from his best friend and put the vest on the shepherd, being walked to the door by both Deucalion and Duchess.

“Text me when you arrive home so I know you're all right,” the older man requested and Scott nodded before answering out loud.

“Yeah. I will.”

A slightly awkward pause took place as he opened the door, Dex in work mode and waiting patiently, Duchess seated by her master's feet, Deucalion holding his cane with both hands.

“May I kiss you good night?” the older man requested and the fact that he asked sealed it for Scott.

Without saying a word, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Deucalion's, feeling as they curved up into a smile. “Goodnight, Duke,” he murmured near them, receiving a chaste kiss right back.

“Goodnight, Scott.”

His heart pounded as he walked to the stairwell, Dex bumping up against his leg on purpose, Scott feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The light, airy feeling wore off by the time he got into bed, his anxiety kicking in and causing him to spend the night tossing and turning as he worried about how things would change between himself and Deucalion, if things would be weird, what would happen if things go wrong between them.

But all the negative thoughts disappeared at the dog park the next day, when Deucalion was there with Duchess and a tube of brand new tennis balls, asking if it was okay to give Scott a kiss in greeting. He also asked if it was okay to hold his hand, assuring Scott he wouldn't mind if the younger man needed to move so it was his left hand. Not once did he make any sort of move or touch him without asking first, always careful to not trigger or push Scott.

Their first official date took place at Deucalion's apartment once more, steaks this time, cooked well-done just the way Scott requested. Deucalion's was more medium-rare and Scott had to force himself not to look, not to watch when blood dripped out as the meat was cut into, not wanting to trigger any flashbacks of soldiers bleeding, of innocent women and children laying dead in the streets.

They had coffee in the den, watching a movie and holding hands the entire time and Scott was able to sit close enough so their arms were pressed together and not freak out. At the end of the date, he initiated the goodnight kiss once more and told Deucalion it was okay to do so whenever he wanted.

Still, the next day at the dog park, the older man gave pause when leaning in for a greeting kiss, Scott closing the gap, knowing it wasn't done out of an inability to see the target.

Their trips for coffee still took place, hands held on the table, and Scott found himself smiling more than he had in months. During the second week of their official couple-dom, he made a visit to Deucalion's law firm, located on the fifth floor of one of Beacon Hill's three high-rises—his apartment being in the second. Kali was less disdainful upon his arrival, although two of his associates—twins named Ethan and Aiden—were surprised to find out that Deucalion even had a life outside of cases. Scott took the lawyer out for lunch and announced he was making it a weekly thing, that he was hoping to one day be able to make the trip without the aid of Dex. The smile Deucalion gave him at both things made it all worth the anxiety he'd originally had at showing up in the first place.

Friday dinners at Deucalion's also became a routine, always home-cooked. On what amounted to their three week anniversary, Scott showed up early and did the cooking himself, using his mom's recipe for empanadas. And since he had no idea which wine would pair with it or give the best mouth-feel, he brought a case of Coronas, both things making Deucalion smile out of joy that Scott felt comfortable enough to be himself and share things he liked.

The next night, he was invited to Stiles and Derek's for dinner. Nothing fancy, delivery pizza and beer eaten in the living room, Tris and Dex playing around with each other, chasing one another throughout the house. It felt a lot like college, the three of them dressed in jeans torn from long time wear rather than fashion, faded graphic tees that looked more like a Rorschach test than any words or pictures. The whole thing was comfortable, casual, and Scott couldn't help but regret all the time he'd lost doing just this while he'd been holed up in his own place, to wonder how he could've been okay with missing out on it.

Then again, it wasn't like he would've cared about missing anything. Depression did that to him. And while he wasn't one-hundred percent better, while he wasn't sure he ever would be, while he still had bad days where socializing just didn't feel like something he was up to doing, at that moment, he felt good.

A smile formed on his face as he brought his beer bottle to his lips, basking in the contentment he'd found in the moment.

“The fuck you smiling at?” Stiles questioned from his position sprawled out on the couch, nestled in the crook of Derek's arm.

Scott turned to find both staring at him, Derek's arm slung casually over Stiles' shoulders as he sat in the corner of the couch, his prosthetic crossed over his good leg, both on the coffee table. The former SEAL rubbed a hand over his face, muffling the way he spoke his boyfriend's name as both a groan and a warning.

Stiles gestured wildly in a manner he never did when in uniform, acting as though he had no idea why Derek would react like that. “What? C'mon, he looks dopey. He hasn't looked that dopey since—” He trailed off, staring out at nothing, eyes wide and lips parted as he seemed to make some sort of connection.

Derek rolled his eyes, ignoring the expression. “You spent months trying to nag him out of his depression and the second he shows an emotion of some form, you call him' dopey' and ask him why he's smiling.”

The comment went ignored, Stiles turning to Scott and pointing an accusing finger at him. “Since Allison!” he glared, wagging his finger. “Who is it?”

He really should've seen it coming, Scott thought, feeling dumb for thinking he could get one past Stiles. Even before he became a deputy, he was overly observant, overly nosy, overly curious. Nothing got by him. Ever. So his best friend feeling good about life after battling severe depression and PTSD, it wasn't something he was gonna miss.

Still...

A heavy sigh escaped him, hands scrubbing at his face. “It's Deucalion.”

Stiles looked flabbergasted and Derek looked uninvolved, grumbling about blind umpires as he stared at the baseball game currently playing on TV.

Scott just sighed again, continuing on, knowing the questions would be coming. “We've been together for about three weeks now and we're taking things slow, but—” He paused, turning back to his friends, finding both already watching him. Stiles was leaning forward, hanging on every word and clearly wanting more details, while Derek looked analytical, processing the words for what they were, what they meant. Scott focused on the former SEAL, knowing he'd be best suited for a question that had been on his mind for a while now. “How'd you know you were ready for the next step after—” he waved a hand in a circle “—everything we've gone through?”

Derek's eyebrows went up at the question, at what had been asked, frowning as he thought it over. “I don't think there's any real sign or magic moment. It's a lot like it had been before, you know? You always knew when you were ready with all your previous relationships, right?”

Scott nodded, not bothering to point out that his past experiences were limited to high school hormones and trying to sneak in a quickie before anyone's parent pulled up.

“Then you'll know now. It's all up to you and how you feel. No one knows your mind better than yourself.” He paused considering, then went on. “I gotta say though, I'm glad to hear you're feeling up to having a relationship at all. That's a big step. Good progress.” He saluted Scott with his beer then took a sip, Scott nodding once in thanks.

Stiles leaned forward and clapped his best friend on the knee twice. “Proud of you, bro.”

A small smile formed on his face. “Thanks,” he replied, feeling proud of himself, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Derek's words stuck with him throughout the week. As well as his own thoughts about his relationship with Deucalion. And fantasies about doing more.

Scott figured it was another sign that he was slowly getting back to normal, or a sense of normal. His libido had practically disappeared after his second tour and with his third tour ending with his right arm in shit shape, the idea of anything sexual just...didn't occur to him.

But lately he'd look at Deucalion and just...want. Kisses became longer, not the quick, chaste pecks they had been. They were lingering, drawn out, both of them reluctant to part from the other. The older man still didn't push Scott into anything more, so he'd been the first one to initiate something more, to step closer and cup Deucalion's face as he kissed him goodbye after their Wednesday lunch date, their bodies barely an inch apart. Deucalion's breath had been shaky on his lips, chest expanded with a gasp, and Scott had gone home with a mind full of images surrounding the man breathing that way for other reasons, his gasp playing over and over in his ear and wondering what else he could do to keep that sound coming.

He'd felt the first stirrings of arousal in his gut at that and he let himself get lost in it, locking a confused and distraught Dex out of the bedroom as he gave in with experimental rubs at his crotch. It wasn't a full masturbation session like it had been before when he was younger, but it was enough to make him feel good, to remind him why he'd enjoyed it so much, to point out how he actually missed this.

That week's dinner date was Thai food that they ordered, something Scott had never had before. Conversation flowed as easily as it always did, although his mind felt like it was in two places at once: focusing on the discussion with Deucalion, and thinking about the possibility of doing more than just talking with him. The thoughts made his heart race and his skin thrum, Dex pressed against his leg all throughout dinner in comfort and support.

But the thoughts felt wrong somehow. Not that there was anything wrong with fantasizing, especially not about someone he was in a relationship with. Just the idea of taking things to a more intimate level when he was still hiding so many things. And while Deucalion had said he would wait until Scott was ready for any discussions or physical action, Scott had to figure the man didn't have an infinite supply of patience. One day he was gonna want more.

And while he'd spent the week wondering if he was ready for more action, he'd also wondered if he was ready to share more, too.

After dinner, they moved to the living room couch at Scott's request, both with a mug of coffee. Although he was second guessing that decision, wondering if maybe he shouldn't take advantage of the liquor carousels Deucalion had on either end of his kitchen island counter. Some liquid courage would go a long way in helping.

Instead he took a large gulp of his coffee, regretting it instantly as it burned its way down his throat, putting the mug on the side table before turning to Deucalion.

“On my third tour, we, uh. We got this tip about a cell camping out in the mountains.”

The older man raised his eyebrows, clearly understanding the gravity of this conversation. He placed his own mug aside and mirrored Scott's body language, turned to face him, hands folded on his lap. He didn't say a word, didn't push, didn't leer. He just sat silent and patient, waiting for more, whenever Scott was ready to go on.

“Our team was deployed to infiltrate and,” he paused, throat thick, barely unable to get the words out. “No one knew about the buried mines on the road.”

Deucalion slid a hand over Scott's thigh, squeezing it in silent support, and Scott wrapped his fingers around it to brace himself to the present, to keep himself grounded and rooted.

But still, his mind was back in Iraq. The sounds of the explosion, the screaming, the crackle. The smells of fire, smoke, burning flesh. The sight of blood, flames, someone's arm no longer attached to the rest of their body. Guilt ate at him, for surviving, for using the arm to push aside heated metal so he didn't burn himself further, trying to get out. He still had no idea whose arm it was and he felt he owed them his life.

He felt like such a dick.

“I, uh. I was on fire. Literally,” he went on, clearing his throat. “Flames engulfed my right side, burned through my vest, my jacket, my skin. I suffered major nerve damage and they told me they may have to amputate that arm, that I may end up with this limp sausage hanging by my side for the rest of my life.” He rubbed his right hand over his face, left one still gripping Deucalion's, and he swallowed hard once more. “It's better, but it's never gonna be one-hundred percent ever again. I'm at maybe thirty or so on a good day. Best it may be is about fifty.”

“Better than nothing,” Deucalion assured, flipping his hand over and threading their fingers together.

“Yeah. Better than nothing,” he repeated in a murmur, tiny smile on his face. “But that's why I hide my right side, why I'm still wearing long sleeves, despite the fact that it hit over ninety today. The skin on that hand and arm, half my chest, most of my back, up my neck, it's all gnarled and twisted and ugly.”

Deucalion snorted through his nose, dubious twist to his lips. “I'm sure it's not ugly.”

Scott rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to let out a snort of his own. “Is this the part when I tell you that you wouldn't say that if you could actually see it and then you ask if you can and you run your hands all over it in your own unique way of visualizing?” He'd been around Stiles too long, it was obvious. That level of sarcastic rambling was something that generally only came from his best friend.

Luckily for him, the older man wasn't offended, chuckling softly as he grinned. “Only with your permission, of course.”

And...well...

It wasn't like Scott hadn't been imagining what it would be like to have Deucalion's hands on him. He felt like an ass at times, picturing the man tracing his hands over Scott's face like every movie cliché featuring a blind person. He was sure it wasn't the tolerant or politically correct thing to. Still, he'd imagined it. A lot. Had imagined those hands tracing over a lot more than just his facial features, in all honesty.

And, yeah, he'd imagined what it would be like for Deucalion to touch his gnarled skin, what he would picture in his head as his fingers ran over the rough scarring. Scott had even closed his eyes at night and touched it himself, trying to figure out what it would be like for Deucalion, wondering if he was able to visualize it because he'd already seen it or due to some sort of creative mental abilities.

Chances were Deucalion's were better than his, honed by years of necessary use. He'd probably be able to see it in his mind's eye perfectly, which scared Scott. What would he think of the deformity, how would he react? Would he be okay with it, be able to see past it? Would it be a deal breaker for someone who saw the world with his hands, unable to handle feeling something so rough and ugly?

Only one way to find out really.

With a deep breath to steal his nerves and a glance at Dex in his usual spot, curled up with Duchess by the fire, Scott grabbed the bottom of his olive green henley top, pulling it over his head and leaving him in just a black tank and his jeans. His breathing grew slightly shaky and he had to mentally tell himself that it was okay, that it was Deucalion, that there was nothing to worry about. He wasn't gonna be harmed in any way. If Deucalion got the sense that there was something wrong, he'd immediately withdraw his hand and give space. Scott was safe. Scott was okay.

Taking another deep breath, he took hold of Deucalion's wrist and placed the hand on his right forearm, making sure the fingertips could feel the twisted skin.

The older man's head tilted to the side as his fingers traced the gnarled flesh, rubbing up and down Scott's forearm. It was a dizzying sensation, feeling the weight of his hand but not the touch of his fingers, most of his nerve endings deadened and useless. His eyes were locked onto the fingers, taking in how long they were, how gentle they appeared to be despite Deucalion's somewhat gruff expression he generally wore.

The digits traced down over the back of Scott's hand, around between the forefinger and thumb, and Scott flipped it over on a silent request. The skin there wasn't as damaged and the light press of Deucalion's fingers was almost tickling, causing his fingers to involuntarily curl up as his breath hitched at the sensation.

Collars jangled in the background but the dogs remained in their place, despite the way Scott's heart was beating faster than normal, his breathing a little shaky. Deucalion's head straightened up and he looked at Scott's face as though he could see it, the younger man nodding and croaking out a weak “it's okay”, left hand reaching over to squeeze Deucalion's wrist where his fingers still dangled over his palm.

Taking the cue, Deucalion traced up the inside of Scott's wrist, up his forearm where they flattened out, around the curve of his elbow. He subconsciously flexed his bicep as the hand traveled up it, proud of the musculature he'd managed to rebuild and wanting to show off a little bit, to impress the man he was dating. He watched as Deucalion's eyebrows raised as he traced over the muscle, as he felt the dip and delineation through the scarring, clearly getting the picture.

The hand continued moving up, cupping his shoulder, thumb brushing against the strap of his tank, under it, feeling more damaged tissue. It was obvious the fabric was hindering any further exploration and why Scott had initially kept it on as a safeguard of sorts, as a way to protect himself, only now he wanted it gone. He didn't want Deucalion to pull his hand away, to stop touching him. He wanted more of his touch, wanting it on skin that wasn't damaged, where Scott would be able to actually _feel_ it this time.

“Hold on a sec,” he requested lowly and immediately Deucalion drew his hand back, putting it on his own lap. Scott's feelings for him swelled, knowing the older man would always do that, no matter what, and it finalized the decision he'd already made in his mind. Leaning back, he lifted his tank up and off, dropping it on the floor with his henley. He turned in his seat, made sure he was close enough, the took hold of Deucalion's hand once more, putting it on his shoulder blade. “My back, where the worst of it happened.”

It was the same as before, a weird knowledge that something was pressing against his skin but not able to fully feel it. He took a deep breath, let his eyes drift closed, and tried to imagine Deucalion's side of things. The bumps of the skin, the twisted scars, the ridges and ripples as they flowed in no real pattern over muscles and bones. Was he able to make sense of it all, to actually see it? Could he imagine the shade of pink it all was, the way it had faded from an angry red that had seemed to reflect the anger Scott had held inside at all of it? Anger at the cowards who'd planted the mine, anger at the fact that he'd been chosen to survive while good men and women had died, anger at his father for bailing and not taking care of his only son, forcing him to enlist in the first place.

A fingertip ran along the edge of where the scarring ended on the left side of his back and he gave a small shudder at the sudden sensation. A humorless laugh ghosted out his nose and he winced, a lopsided grimace to match his uneven jaw.

“Sorry. Wasn't expecting to suddenly feel something,” he explained, Deucalion giving a thoughtful hum.

“So you feel no sensation in this skin at all?”

“Not the damaged parts, no.”

Another thoughtful hum as the hand traveled more. Soon, fingers were playing with the base of his hairline, touching the dark strands, flicking against the curls. He inhaled sharply, feeling the fingers move to his neck, to the smooth skin at the left side, just barely touching a spot just behind his ear. But it was enough to make him shiver and stutter an exhale, the air getting caught in his throat. Tingles broke out over his skin, his cock giving an interested pulse inside his boxer-briefs, and he held himself deathly still in anticipation of more.

Only the fingers were retracting.

He reached back in a snap decision, grabbing hold, squeezing them and swallowing hard. “Don't stop,” he murmured gently, pleading, feeling a thumb rub over his knuckles.

“If that's what you want,” Deucalion replied, just as low, and Scott nodded enthusiastically.

“Please. Keep touching me.”

As soon as Scott released his hold, Deucalion's fingers moved back to his neck, to that same weak spot, making him shiver again. They rounded his shoulder, slipped over his collarbone, tracing the bone over and over again. The gentle sensation had Scott biting his lower lip to hold back any sounds he didn't want being heard, a gasp slipping out anyway as the hand slid down over his pec, over his rapidly beating heart. Fingers smoothed over the flat muscle and Scott held his breath, hoping Deucalion wouldn't be able to tell how high his heart rate was or how shaky his breathing was or how affected he truly was just by simply being touched.

Of course that noble plan went to hell when that simple touch brushed over his nipple and he practically choked on air, his entire body shuddering.

“Sorry,” Deucalion murmured, sounding genuinely apologetic but also strangely not sorry, as though he was glad he'd caused that affect but remorseful over making Scott react in a way he didn't want to.

“Don't be,” Scott replied, meaning it, loosely wrapping his fingers around Deucalion's wrist in case he did something stupid like pull his hand away.

Which, thankfully, he didn't, that hand sliding across his chest instead, coming across more gnarled skin. But rather than feel it, the hand moved up, curving around the side of Scott's neck.

He turned in his seat, sitting properly on the couch, Deucalion sitting on it sideways with his hand sliding up the side of Scott's neck. His thumb traced over his jawline, his chin, his free right hand reaching up and cupping the other side of his jaw. His head tilted to the side, seemingly puzzled, and Scott let out a small, deprecating laugh.

“Yeah, my jawline is a little crooked. Has been since I was a kid.”

“I like it,” Deucalion stated honestly. “Small imperfections make the world more interesting. I'd be bored if you were conventionally attractive.”

“Guess you must be bored with yourself then, huh?” The words slipped out and Scott's eyes went wide, face heating up in mortification.

Deucalion just laughed. “And they call _me_ the charming one.”

“They'd be right,” Scott commented, realizing that his thumb was rubbing the inside of Deucalion's wrist, the man's pulse thrumming.

The older man gusted out a laugh through his nose before drawing his hands back, Scott's hand falling away, then Deucalion pulled his aviators off. Scott inhaled deep and held the air in his lungs, heart pounding faster now as he finally got a look at Deucalion's face without any obstructions in the way. His eyes were closed, but Scott didn't care, charmed by the wrinkles framing them, the way they crinkled as Deucalion's lips pulled up at one side in a self-deprecating smile.

“It was a car wreck when I was fifteen,” he explained, lids still down. “Some glass and shrapnel got in my eyes, scratched my retinas. There wasn't anything they could do.” At that, he finally opened them up, allowing Scott his first look at his eyes.

The irises were milky blue, the whites scratched up, and scars were still visible around the outer edges of the eye sockets themselves. It was no wonder he preferred to wear the sunglasses all the time, probably so he wouldn't be inundated with a thousand questions every day of his life. He may not have been able to see all the stares he would've received, but he'd certainly feel them.

Scott framed the older man's face in his hands, leaning closer, thumbs rubbing the apples of his cheeks. His skin was prickly where he hadn't shaved, scratching at Scott's palms in a pleasurable way. “It's probably a good thing you can't see,” he commented, fighting a smirk. “Then you can't tell that you're definitely the better looking of the two of us.”

Deucalion laughed at that, full bellied, head tilting back, and Scott felt the grin win, splitting his face in two. When the chuckles began dying off, he leaned even closer and erased the gap between them, kissing his man full on the lips. And when he would usually pull away, he pressed even closer.

Sensing the change, Deucalion kissed back just as fierce, tilting his head just enough to slot their lips together even better. His fingers wrapped around Scott's wrists, trailing down his arms and around his shoulders, cupping his neck. Fingers teased at the weak point behind his left ear and his lips parted on a quiet gasp, a shudder wracking his body.

Their lips moved together in a manner that spoke more of tried and true practice rather the first time they'd come together in that way, but Deucalion never pushed for more, allowing Scott to set the pace. So Scott was the one who tentatively licked the tip of his tongue on Deucalion's lip, Scott was the one who gained access, Scott was the one who slipped inside and rubbed against the other man's tongue. He tasted like the black coffee he preferred with a fruity hint of the wine they'd had with dinner and Scott chased it, wanting more.

His fingers slipped into golden brown hair as he shifted, rising up onto a knee and leaning more into Deucalion's space. The older man's hands slid down, traced over his sides and his ribs, settling on his hips. Scott let out a muffled whine, wanting more, wanting closer, wanting Deucalion.

The older man pulled away long enough to ask “this okay?” and allow Scott to demand “more”. Deucalion's chuckle was smothered by Scott's enthusiastic kiss once more, the grip on his hips tightening, tugging him closer. Without hesitation, Scott pulled his legs up so his knees were on either side of Deucalion's hips, straddling him. A gentle tug had him seated in the older man's lap, hands sliding around to his bare back.

His skin felt like it was on fire, tingling, buzzing. His heart was racing in his chest but not from panic. Arousal was coursing through him, causing his cock to pulse in his boxer-briefs, thickening with each throb. His breathing was shaky and erratic and the one thing that assured him that it was okay was the fact that Deucalion's breathing was just as tremulous.

Deucalion pulled away once more, panting, and Scott refused to break the connection. He moved his hands so one was flat over his chest, the other tugging at the collar of his v-neck tee, lips pressing to the crook of his neck. Marks most likely weren't allowed on his neck, not with a professional job like the one Deucalion had, but if Scott could hide them...

He bit down at the joint between neck and shoulder, making the man gasp then groan, his hips bucking up. He soothed the hurt with his tongue, feeling wild, feeling out of control. Derek's words suddenly popped in his head, reminding him that he'd know when he was ready, and while he didn't quite feel like he was okay with going all the way, he definitely wanted more than just lips.

“What—what do you want?” Deucalion questioned, as though reading Scott's mind, head tilting back as Scott trailed open mouth kisses over his throat, fingers gripping into the skin of his back.

And that was the million dollar question. He knew he wanted “more”, but “more” was such an undefined concept, such an open-ended thing. It covered a multitude of sins and with Deucalion being so careful with every move they made since the start of their relationship, he was gonna want a fully detailed outline of events. Meaning Scott had to know _exactly_ what he wanted.

Which...

What _did_ he want?

Scott lifted his head, panting, staring down at unseeing eyes. He absently wondered what color they'd once been, only to decide it didn't matter. They were beautiful in their imperfections, just like Deucalion had more or less said earlier about his messed up skin. It was proof of what a survivor he was, a reminder of all he'd endured and conquered, proof that he was strong. And best of all, it was proof that Deucalion was still alive, that he'd lived through a bad accident and lived long enough to be able to meet Scott, so they could be together. He was proof that one could heal and move on and have a great life. He was proof of what Scott wanted and wanted to be.

“Touch me?” he requested, cock throbbing in his pants, hand trailing down the middle of the man's torso. “And I wanna touch you, too. All of you.”

A wide grin spread across Deucalion's face, crinkling his eyes. “Works for me,” he commented, hands settling on Scott's lower back. “Mind helping me out of my shirt?”

“Fuck no.”

A chuckle left Deucalion and Scott grabbed the bottom of his v-neck, pulling it off. Which... best. Idea. Ever. Because Deucalion was cut, was in much better shape than his button-downs and fancy expensive t-shirts gave away. His biceps were as big—if not bigger—than Scott's had been when he'd been in the Army, a defined six—no, eight-pack, obliques that looked like the perfect handholds, complete with dark hair leading from his navel down into the waistband of his jeans.

Scott gave in to temptation and trailed his left hand down the center of Deucalion's torso, watching the way his chest seemed to heave with every breath. He was clearly affected by the touch, just as Scott was affected by touching him. He curled his fingers in the trail of hair, scratching lightly and making his lower abdominals twitch, ending by cupping his hand over the crotch of Deucalion's jeans.

And feeling a hot, hard bulge under his palm.

Fuck.

Deucalion ran his hand up Scott's arm and cupped it around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss that spoke of want and demand. He wasn't holding back, not this time, trusting Scott to say when things were too much, too far. And that trust spoke volumes about how Deucalion felt about him, about their relationship, about them as a pair.

Scott pressed against Deucalion's cock, then wrapped his hand around it as best he could with jeans in the way, squeezing it. The groan the older man let out made his own dick pulse and his hips jerk. But he ignored his own needs, his own wants, overpowered by a stronger desire to touch Deucalion, to pleasure him instead. With both hands, he undid the man's belt, the button of his jeans, the zipper. Reaching inside with his left hand, he gripped his cock through the silk of his underwear, stroking and squeezing as best as he could.

Deucalion groaned long and loud, head falling back, and Scott took advantage of the exposed skin, kissing all over once more. His lips trailed down to his collarbone, biting it, trailing his teeth along the ridge. Fingers ran through his hair, a hand trailing down his side and around his waist, finding the button fly of his own jeans.

“May I?” Deucalion double-checked and Scott nodded against his chest before breathing out a “yeah. Please.” The hand in his hair left, joining the other at his fly, the four buttons being easily undone.

His cock throbbed harder, no longer constricted behind denim, more room to grow and harden. Deucalion wrapped his hand around it in much the same way Scott had done to his, stroking in the same rhythm. It soon became apparent that he was mimicking the younger man. When Scott slowed, he slowed. When Scott sped up, he sped up. When Scott let go, he let go. And when Scott regripped him, he regripped.

The cotton rubbing against his cock soon grew uncomfortable, too rough. He figured Deucalion wasn't having the same issue with the easy way the silk of his boxers was gliding over his own dick, the smoothness of every stroke. Knowing it was up to him to take the initiative, he unbuttoned the slit in the underwear and pulled the older man's cock through it, wrapping his fingers around it. The heat and the weight of it in his grip was definitely not what he was used to, nor was the angle of how he was stroking. Yet it strangely felt right, thick with a prominent vein going along the bottom, and he was overwhelmed with images of having it in his mouth, maybe even in his ass.

One day.

Eventually.

Deucalion moaned, hand pausing for a moment as he became overwhelmed with the sensation of someone stroking his bare cock. But he seemed to fight through it, slipping Scott's dick through the slit in his boxer-briefs and jerking him off in time once more.

Both were panting, Scott shuddering where he was seated on Deucalion's lap, small gasps leaving him. An arm was wrapped around his lower back and Deucalion urged him forward, Scott shuffling on his knees so he was as close as possible. Their hands knocked together with every stroke, knuckles stinging, and he let out a laugh at it before releasing his hold on the older man's dick.

“Can we—maybe can—what if—?” he struggled, trying to figure out how to ask, his face burning with embarrassment. It was like he was a virgin all over again, and in some ways he was. This was the first man he'd been with, and the first person he'd been with since being overseas, since readjusting to life with what amounted to a new brain.

“I think I understand what you're trying to stay,” Deucalion saved him, adjusting his grip so that he held both cocks in one hand. “Were you thinking something along these lines?”

Scott nodded, forehead pressed against the other man's at the sensation of another cock against his own. He felt the heat coming off him, the way it throbbed, the pulsing of that vein. His hips bucked on automatic and he groaned, overwhelmed. The sensitive part under the head was perfectly rubbed by the head of Deucalion's, the vein pressed, the grip nice and tight. Fuck, no wonder this was done in porn, no wonder guys did this, experimented with this. He'd been missing out.

Deucalion let out a pleased hum, smiling, his eyes closed. “Do it again. Keep going.”

And who the hell was Scott to deny him?”

He thrust his hips again, rubbing both their cocks together, stroking himself in that grip. His breathing was shaky, gasps more than anything. Precome leaked out of them both and slicked the way, each move becoming easier, more pleasurable.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned out, hands gripping the older man's shoulders. “Duke. Fuck.”

“You feel amazing, Scott,” Deucalion assured, hand reaching down and squeezing his ass tentatively. When there was no objections, he gripped it harder and made him cry out.

“Shit!”

Draping his right arm around the man's shoulders, he reached down with his left, wrapping it around Deucalion's as it held their cocks, making the grip tighter. But soon, bucking his hips wasn't enough, didn't stroke the way he needed, didn't seem to be doing as much for Deucalion either. So he began moving their hands instead, stroking their cocks. The hint was taken and Deucalion moved his hand at a fast pace, causing Scott to keen wildly.

“Oh shit, don't stop, Duke, please don't stop.”

“Never.”

He half-laughed, half-cried out, moving his hand so the palm was rubbing against the very tips of their cocks, working their slits. Deucalion shuddered beneath him, letting out a sound that was practically a growl, making a shiver of pleasure race up Scott's spine. A smile formed on his face and he let out a sharp breath, his hips thrusting once more.

The combination was making him dizzy, making his head spin in the best way, and he had to rest his forehead on Deucalion's to keep from tipping over. His skin felt hot, the forehead under his clammy and slick from sweat, and he wasn't sure if his heart would ever recover from the way it was speeding so dangerously out of control.

But fuck was he loving it. He was loving the feeling of being so wild and out of control, so free from every single thought and memory. His entire world had zeroed down to the man underneath him and the pleasure they were bringing one another, the way his spine tingled dangerously and his balls tightened and everything felt so much more intense than he remembered it being. Could've been because it had been a while and the release had been building up for so long. Could've been the fact that he couldn't remember it accurately, his memory altered somehow or weakened. Could've been because of the man he was with, the way Scott felt about him.

Not that it mattered really. All that mattered was Scott was getting close and he wanted Deucalion to feel the same.

Moving his hand, he focused solely on the head of Deucalion's cock, thumbing his slit, rubbing the sensitive part under the mushroom crown. Deucalion's eyes went wide, a throaty growl leaving him once more, and the hand on his ass tightened its grip.

“Scott,” he rumbled, the single syllable all the more arousing and intense due to the manner in which it was spoken and that accent that made Scott feel lightheaded. “I'm getting close.”

Scott just nodded and kept at it, tongue darting out to lick up sweat the had beaded at the top of Deucalion's lip. “Good. Me, too.”

“Yeah?” the older man checked, more nodding from Scott, and he smiled before moving his hand off their cocks, making Scott whine. He simply smiled more, hands cupping the other's face. “Then get us there. I want to feel you let go.”

Jesus...

Scott whined again, wrapping his hand around them both and jerking them as hard and as fast as he could with his left hand. His hips were still moving, thrusts growing erratic and sloppy as he drew closer. Deucalion was still panting, his own pelvis giving aborted little thrusts, and Scott had the briefest flash of fantasies over feeling that inside him, over what it would be like to have that thick cock splitting him open, stimulating his prostate...

The thought was the final spark he needed, the final push over the edge. His jaw dropped in a choked out cry, eyes widening, body tensing all over. He could feel his toes curl in his boots, his thighs tightening around Deucalion's, his forearm twitching where it was still draped around the other man's shoulders. Deucalion let out a gasp of his own as thick ropes of come spurted out of Scott's cock, painting his chest, his abdomen, trickling down onto his own dick.

He kept stroking through it, letting go when it became too much and rewrapping his hand around Deucalion's dick only. Despite the fatigue setting in and the soreness in his forearm, he kept going, wanting the other man to experience what he just had, wanting to see him let go.

“C'mon, Duke,” he urged, muttering, the wet slick sounds of jerking him off and the older man's panting the only sounds he could hear. “I wanna feel you, too.”

“Almost,” Deucalion stated, hands slipping down to Scott's shoulders, fingers digging in, hips thrusting up and not holding back.

Scott looked down, finding something so fucking erotic about seeing the head of Deucalion's cock repeatedly disappear then pop out of his fist, about seeing it covered in his come and knowing that it was providing the wet slick needed to make the motions smooth. He felt a spark of arousal deep inside but his own dick lay limp on the older man's thigh, done for the moment. But this was definitely an image he was gonna bring back up. A lot.

His eyes traveled up, seeing the taughtness in his abdominals, the heaving in his chest, the tensity in his jaw as he grit his teeth. And finally, those milky eyes that were locked onto Scott's face as though actually seeing him, lids fighting gravity as his jaw lost the battle.

Deucalion came with a guttural groan, tendons bulging on his neck. Scott leaned down and took one between his teeth, nibbling as he kept stroking him, moving his torso close enough so that his ejaculate hit both their bare chests and stomachs, so that he was marked just as much as Deucalion had been. A hiss warned him of oversensitivity and he carefully let go, placing his stained hand on the older man's chest, feeling the rise and fall of deep breaths.

He lifted his head at the urging of fingers curling in his hair, let himself be pulled closer for a kiss that began chaste, then grew deeper, then grew chaste once more. Scott's heart felt full with words he couldn't bring himself to say, with emotions he hadn't experienced in so long and never with quite the same amount of intensity. But there was still one thing he could say, one thing he _needed_ to say, and he rubbed their noses together before leaning his forehead on Deucalion's once again.

“Thank you.”

A smile formed on the older man's face, fingers carding through curly hair. “For what?”

“Everything.”

Deucalion breathed out a chuckle, squeezing Scott's gnarled side with enough pressure that it could be felt. Nothing else was said. Nothing needed to be said. All that was needed at that moment was the two of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott never went back to therapy. Or at least not therapy with Morrell. He was steadfast in his belief that she couldn't truly help him, no matter what qualifications she had framed on her wall. She hadn't been there, hadn't seen what he had, and therefore had no idea what he'd been through. And how was he supposed to take the advice of someone who was clueless to all the horrors he had witnessed?

He did, however, start going to group meetings Derek led at the VA. Part of it was the fact that he knew Derek would be there, and that Dex would be allowed to come with, giving him a sense of security and comfort that allowed him to be able to go in the first place. That, plus he knew he actually needed the help. He'd taken steps to recovery by himself but was beginning to feel as though he'd gone as far as he could on his own. Now he realized that he needed someone by his side to help guide him down the path to as close to a normal life as he could get.

Dex had been and continued to be a huge help. There were days when Scott still needed a buffer when going out in public, especially to new places, and Dex was the perfect one, keeping the rest of the world at a safe distance, recognizing fear and panic in his owner and coming to the rescue.

Derek was also proving to be a valuable aid now that Scott was letting him be. It had began with a night-terror that he couldn't let go of even after waking and without knowing what else to do, Scott had called the former SEAL. Derek had answered despite it being nearly three am and they both talked until the sun came up, Derek refusing to get off the phone unless he was sure Scott was one-hundred percent okay.

And Scott would be remiss if he didn't think of all the help Deucalion had been also. He was able to open up about fears and stumbles in his road to recovery, knowing the older man wouldn't judge since he'd been there, done that himself. Deucalion also made Scott more confident in himself, made him feel better about the scars he carried both in his mind and on his body. A month after Scott had first let Deucalion feel them, he felt okay enough to leave the house in a t-shirt when he joined the lawyer at the dog park.

Scott knew he still had a long way to go, more hurdles and challenges. He and Deucalion still hadn't gone further than a few hand jobs and eventually the time would come for more, something he was looking forward to and terrified of all at the same time. He also was dealing with guilt at having turned down an offer to spend the night at the man's place, too scared to sleep anywhere but his own house for the time being. And considering Deucalion's inability to see, it didn't feel right to have the man stay over at his house either.

But he was a long way from where he'd been, stuck on the couch in a daze, no idea what time it was, what day it was, if he was even bothered by not knowing. And he knew he had a whole group of people to thank for their help, although he'd never admit to anyone else that his dog Dex was the one who'd been the biggest aid to him, not just with getting him out the house, but by bringing him someone who made it worth leaving for.

And to think, it had all started with a blind man trying to walk off with the wrong shepherd.


End file.
